Lest We Forget: The 1st Hunger Games
by RookieWriter96
Summary: SYOT CLOSED. After years of Panem playing host to war, of the Capitol being threatened by the savage Districts: Mere hours ago, the fate of Panem still hung in the balance. The world was at risk of being turned upside is will be the Capitol's retribution, the blood of children will pay for the sins of their Fathers. (Read A/N Chapter Seven)
1. Prologue: Part One

_**Good Evening, or Morning depending on where you're from.**_

 _ **I've decided to wade into the waters of Hunger Games fanfiction. With an SYOT story, because some of the ones I've read have been phenomenal. Initially, I wanted to do a futuristic AU but decided to play it safe and work within the canon period. So welcome to the 1**_ _ **st**_ _ **Hunger Games… I look forward to playing around in the sandbox that is Panem. Which I don't actually own.**_

 _ **Here's the prologue.**_

* * *

 **Garrick DeMontford, President of Panem.**

After years of my beloved Panem playing host to war, of the Capitol being threatened by the savage Districts: The exquisite taste of Victory is mine for the taking. Mere hours ago, the fate of Panem still hung in the balance. The world was at risk of being turned upside down. With the vicious Rebel leaders reigning over the Capitolites and their superior breeding. But the children of the Capitol can sleep restfully tonight: A hero came forward to end this war and ensure the Capitol supremacy. That hero is I, Garrick Coriolanus DeMontford.

In my short tenure as President, my penchant for strategy has allowed me to utilise the resources available to the Capitol. Ending the District's pathetic attempts to seize power from those that surpass them in every way, and cementing the Capitol's legacy as the leaders of Panem. As soon as I was informed that the Capitol Armed Services, or as they are fondly referred to by Capitolites 'Peacekeepers', were able to shut off the trade routes between the Districts: It was evident that this war was over.

Shortly afterwards I was able to ensure that the Peacekeepers assumed control of the Rebel Bases, and without the resources and the 'safe houses' which gave them the chance to organise attacks against the Capitol: Their efforts became futile. Many laid down their weapons, tucking their tails between their legs like the animals they are. But some, they may be considered 'courageous' or more accurately stupid, continued to fight against the Capitol's forces despite knowing their inevitable fate. The Dark Days came to an end and, as President, it is my duty to shepherd Panem into a new age: An age of light and prosperity for the Capitol.

Now however, I find myself celebrating the Capitol's victory with those who were pivotal in guaranteeing the Districts' downfall. Those who provided the counsel on eliminating every threat we, as the Capitol, faced. The delicate thrum of Debussy provides an ambient atmosphere as the liqueur flows generously. I myself favour water knowing that as we navigate towards the Age of the Capitol, it is most prudent to keep my wits about me. I smile indulgently as sincere compliments are offered by my cabinet of advisors.

"Genius, if I say so myself… Neutralising 13 with radiation and forcing them underground like the vermin they are. Genius…"

Harold Merriweather was usually a stoic man, but his reddened face revealed his inebriated state. He continued to ramble, stating facts I was already well aware of as I was the one who had orchestrated the systematic destruction of the graphite District. A genial smile remained on my face, luxuriating in the compliments thrown my way and basking in the knowledge that the Capitol had maintained its firm control over the Nation. Debussy had been replaced by Bach, but the joyful camaraderie had given way to more serious topics of discussion. Evidently it was only Merriweather who had overindulged on the alcoholic front.

"How do you propose we prevent something like this happening again? War is inevitable…" Niall Jensen opened the forum of discussion, although it dampened the celebratory mood. The things he'd expressed were genuine causes for concern. The Capitol had advantages with the technology available, but the Districts held the highest number of available combatants. Silence reigned over those gathered in my lavish living quarters until Merriweather roused momentarily from his slumber.

"Public execution, we just kill them all. Problem solved" He punctuated his brash statement by banging his flabby fist against the mahogany writing desk where he had perched. His statement, while illogical and downright absurd, was humorous and most of those gathered began to laugh at Merriweather's notion. Sabrina Fenton, on the other hand, had little patience for such things. Running her willowy fingers through her moss coloured hair, and narrowing her obsidian eyes on the man who'd just spoken.

"And who exactly would do everything Harold? I swear that if you were in possession of one shred of intelligence, you'd be a dangerous man. You see, I did not fund the war effort so that my children, and the future generations of the Capitol, would be mining coal like vagrants. We need a workforce, the Districts provide that…or would you all prefer to tarnish the Capitol's reputation by having us labour like common tramps."

Sabrina openly challenged anyone to dispute what she was saying, nobody did. She smirked triumphantly at the acceptance of what she'd said; unfortunately this allowed the other occupants of the room to begin broadcasting their opinions on how the Capitol should maintain an ironclad grasp on Panem and control over the districts. The cacophony of voices became a wall of sound, and I rubbed at my temples to banish an oncoming migraine as I filtered out some of the more absurd suggestions.

"If I may…"

A saccharine sweet voice rung out: Rendering the room silent. Corrine Snow came forward from where she had been residing all evening, a small armchair nearest my collection of tomes that I'd accumulated over the years. With her platinum hair falling in gentle waves, and the soft angles of her face many would assume that she were nothing more than a beautiful woman destined for life as a Capitolite housewife. They were wrong in so many ways, you need only to observe the way she waltzed with lethal grace to suspect she was not as dainty as her stature would imply. But if you looked into her cold cerulean eyes, belying the shrewdness of her character and glimmering with her vindictive nature, you would not doubt that she is ranked amongst the most dangerous people to roam Panem.

Corrine Snow may be the reason that the Capitol prevailed. A renowned biochemical engineer, who single handily designed and constructed a large portion of the weaponry exploited by our forces. She was not one to speak often, but when she did speak it was wise to listen. I felt myself leaning forwards and focussing all my attention on her slight figure. Once it was clear that everyone was listening intently, she bared her teeth in what could be construed as a smile.

"As of now, the Districts fear how we would retaliate if they were to lash out at us again, they don't know what tricks may be hidden beneath our proverbial sleeves. Fear rules the actions of the Districts. They fear us, and therefore they're acting in whichever way they feel will result in our showing them mercy."

Corrine paused for a nanosecond, her words painting an image of the Districts' subservience. I could feel the smugness radiating from the rooms occupants; they're grins growing by the second. Rather than copying their actions, I remained focussed on Corrine. She would not have spoken if only to stroke the egos of Panem's elite. She caught my gaze and raised an eyebrow, silently questioning if I would like her to continue. I simply gestured for her to do so, clearing my throat to bring the focus back to the matter at hand.

"Thank you, Garrick. As I said, their fear of our retribution is what is preventing them from attacking the Capitol. For now, for I am sure that none of you are naïve enough to believe that simple fear could control so many people indefinitely…"

Corrine narrowed her eyes at the room at large, and smirked as she saw some people lower their gazes to the ground. Abashed at the young woman exposing their 'naiveté' Corrine's sarcastic admonishment caused a murmur to run through the room. And catching Corrine's eye I knew that she had caught what I had: The bitter aroma of fear.

"So fear is our temporary method of handing the Districts, but there are other things to consider that are far more powerful than fear. Things that could motivate the Districts to rise against us yet again, and I think it correct to say that we all agree that another war would be inconvenient."

As her words sank in, hushed whispers began to traverse the room. The atmosphere began to thicken with the heady perfume of panic, one person however remained unaffected by Snow's statement. Gregor Samsa, an insect like man with lime coloured skin and pinched features, scoffed and cast himself in the role of Devil's advocate. I smirked as Snow remained unaffected by his rude gesture, used to Samsa's controversial methods of approaching issues.

"What is it you're getting at Corrine? I have neither the time, nor the patience, for your worthless rambling."

The tension cut have been cut with a knife, everyone's eye travelled between Gregor and Corrine as if they were watching a tennis match. Rather than responding to the verbal bait, Corrine brushed off his discourteousness and smiled before beginning to walk around the room. Her voice becoming softer, the gentle lilt somehow pulling the focus of the room onto herself. Like a moth to a flame.

"Hope, as long as they have hope there is always the risk: However small, and seemingly insignificant, that may be…That we will face another uprising."

My elbows rested against my desk as my eyes followed Snow across the room, her voice beckoning me to listen. My actions were mirrored by the other members of the cabinet; even Gregor's eyes had lost their glistening arrogance momentarily. He shook his head before clapping his hands together slowly, violet eyes narrowed at Corrine and a patronising grimace twisting his features.

"And tell us, oh knowledgeable one, how we are somehow meant to eradicate hope? Have you been tinkering around in your little lab with a 'Hope Vacuum'?"

I was entranced by the verbal sparring between the two, smirking as Corrine bristled slightly: A raspberry hue marring her pale complexion. Her usually plump lips now a thin line of distaste, her arms folded against her chest as she glares vehemently at her 'opponent'.

"I know that you've always struggled with understanding emotions Gregor, your limited emotional range was justifiably the reason that your marriage ended. But you can't 'eradicate' hope, you can only ever control. Or moderate how much hope the Districts as a collective can have: Or you redirect the source of their hope to something other than overthrowing the Capitol. Turn their aggression from the Capitol towards one another, a Civil War of sorts."

"How?"

Gregor wasted no time in throwing a question at Corrine. I suspected his animosity towards her may have grown even more due to her barb about his marriage: But he had always resented Corrine and attempted to belittle her. It wasn't hard to distinguish the hope in his voice that Corrine wouldn't be able to answer his seemingly innocent question. The flippancy of Corrine as she inspected her nails, however, vanquished that hope.

"I have a rough idea, something I've been contemplating for a while. A pageant of sorts – 24 will compete. A male and female from the 12 remaining Districts, since the general populace believe District 13 to have been completely destroyed—"

"Oh and the winners will get a crown and a sash?"

This errant comment came from Evangeline Islington, an airheaded girl whose generally annoying nature was neutralised by her substantial finances and desire to see the Districts of Panem suffer. Both Corrine and Gregor, their dispute momentarily forgotten, glared at the imbecilic girl. Corrine however was quick to hide her disdain, a feral smile curling her lips.

"This would be unlike any pageants that come before it. There may well be a sash and crown involved, that's undecided: But the main prize for the winner, a singular winner, is that they will get to survive. This isn't a competition of talent rounds, although I believe we could incorporate some elements of a conventional 'Pageant': This is a game that you only win by eliminating the competition."

The tone of her voice left no question as to how the participants would be expected to 'eliminate' one another. And the gasps from around the room told me that everyone had understood the implications, a general buzz of chatter permeates the room and the fear from beforehand has dissolved and gave way to the gentle warmth of anticipation and excitement. And as expected it is Gregor who attempts to discredit the young engineer.

"So, you're grand plan is something along the lines of lining up 24 District children and having 24 Peacekeepers shoot them down, yet one barrel is barren of bullets. That sounds like a simple alternative to your little 'Pageant'"

I struggle to prevent myself from banging my head against my desk; Gregor's antipathy is making him desperately try to discredit Corrine. But the only thing he is succeeding in is making himself look nothing more than a pompous fool. Corrine catches my eye and shakes her head at his rash stupidity.

"No, the Capitol acting out and killing 23 District civilians is basically adding fuel to the fire of hope rather than suppressing it. The key to this whole concept is to alienate the Districts against one another, and since you're incapable of understanding maybe you require an example. A male from District 2 brutally murders the female of District 9, this results in resentment between the two Districts. Therefore the probability of said Districts forming an alliance to take down the Capitol is reduced…Are you all following me?"

My own tenor joins the choral response of agreement throughout the room. I, myself, begin to ponder the logistics of Corrine's proposal and concede that the idea itself, while flawed, is the better than anything I have been able to put together. Gregor's bitterness is palpable as he concedes defeat by emptying his tumbler of Malt Whiskey. He grunts in agreement.

"Okay Corrine, you're right. We throw them all into a room and one comes out."

Gregor's response is met by an exasperated sigh from Corrine who pinches the bridge of her nose. Her gesture appears to radiate frustration, but when she turns her gaze to Gregor her blue eyes are full of pity and it's at that moment that Corrine has cinched absolute victory over Samsa as the people spread throughout the room began to titter at his expense. Gregor's lime complexion began to darken to a forest green in embarrassment and Corrine simply turned her back to the spluttering man, before addressing the room at large.

"Gregor's idea does have 'merit' but it lacks foresight. We need to look at the bigger picture; this concept can be exploited to not only punish and suppress the Districts. This can benefit the Capitol too, both economically and socially: We fashion this as entertainment, make it something that people will talk about. People will have their favourites and could 'sponsor' them throughout the ordeal. But it would be costly, we can manufacture anything they'd need for barely anything but if somebody wants one of the participants to have, a crossbow for example, they'd have to pay a lot which would then be brought back into the Capitol and reinvested into other areas… But that's not all, we could completely alter the relationship between the Capitol and the Districts. We have one 'Victor', we shower them with riches they can take back to their District. We could repeat this every year, the participants would be competing for riches that their District direly needs. Rather than planning an uprising, they'll be more concerned with survival or the glory of being the individual who brought prosperity to their District. They will need us."

A triumphant glimmer made itself known in Corrine's eyes. She had everyone sold on the idea, myself included. I couldn't doubt now that Corrine's genius is what will ensure my ascension to the most revered President in Panem's history. My fingers tingled in anticipation for Corrine's proposal to come into existence, my lips curling in satisfaction that the District's would be reminded time and time again of their powerlessness against the might of the Capitol. This would be what reminded the Districts one and for all, that they should never have bitten the hand that feeds them. As the room remains speechless as they muse over what Snow had said, I stand and all eyes are suddenly fixed on me.

"Corrine, your twisted logic and harrowing intelligence never fail to impress me. In due course, we will have to meet and discuss this 'Pageant' further. But until then, we must celebrate the end of the Dark Days."

My words are greeted with a chorus of cheers as people return to their mundane conversations, about how Tilley Dunois has supposedly devised a dye that would alter the color of people's feces. I, however, seek out Corrine. Her eyes are fixed on me, shining with joy that I have practically given the go ahead for her sordid fantasy to become a reality. She gave me a coy smile before turning her back and leaving the celebration before I could as much as ask her if she'd like a drink. Rather than wasting time in pondering the enigmatic Snow woman, and the consequent migraine, I head towards the liquor cabinet: Long live the Capitol.

* * *

 _ **I hope you enjoyed the prologue and the characters I've created. Obviously there is no canon conception of the Hunger Games so I have improvised.**_

 _ **If you'd like to submit a tribute, which I hope you do, drop a review and I'll send you the tribute form via PM. Also, I won't be doing a 'sponsor' system but you can earn some brownie points by answering the two questions I will put at the end of each chapter.**_

 _ **Which character's name, that appears in this chapter, has been taken from a play? Which play was it taken from?**_

 _ **If you lived in Panem, which District would you call home? Why?**_


	2. Prologue: Part Two

_**Hey guys,**_

 _ **A quick update… A snippet from Corrine about the conception of the Hunger Games. Warning: This is a relatively static chapter but there are only so many contexts I can envisage the development of the games. And by the way, I still need tributes... so keep on submitting so I can move the story away from the Capitol.**_

* * *

 **Corrine Snow, Capitol.**

President DeMontford sits before me, eyes fixated on the large selection of blueprints and various folders of information before him. Contained within these documents is the fruition of numerous hours of research. Endless equations and formulae that have allowed me to breathe life into my whimsical fantasies of oppressing the Districts, science becoming the means of blurring the fine line between fantasy and reality. If I didn't wholeheartedly believe that my mind child, or as DeMontford referred to it offhandedly 'The Hunger Games', would be responsible for economically bettering the Capitol. Or help maintain our stranglehold over the Districts; I would never have brought the proposal forward.

As the silence stretches on, my confidence dissipates. Slowly replaced by apprehension as DeMontford's brow begins to furrow, and he tease his bottom lip with his teeth. I begin to doubt the calculations I had made, has I overestimated his enthusiasm for my idea. No, there is no doubt that my proposed methods of addressing the issue that is the Districts of Panem would enable us both to become iconic: Both of us figures that are feared by the Districts and revered by the Capitol. My vindictive intelligence combined with his effortless charisma would allow us to bring a Nation to its knees.

It's not long until the anxiety that has settled in my stomach begins to make way to a bubbling rage. This man could not have spearheaded the war effort without a shred of intelligence, and strength of character. Such strength may have inoculated him against attempts to manipulation, but I doubt that is the reason for his supposed reluctance to initiate 'The Hunger Games': A political weapon that would cement his legacy, and ensure his name would be heralded throughout Panem for eternity. No, I believe his 'distraction' hails from masculine pride: As the leader of Panem, he probably doesn't want to admit that the one thing that could make him great wasn't even his idea.

"Corrine…"

Azure meets grey as he looks up, my face schooled into an expression of polite indifference while my blood sears my veins. Various macabre scenarios run through my head, each more elaborate than the previous, of a Panem where I, and my notions, can flourish. Unencumbered by the like of Garrick DeMontford and their fragile egos. Before replying, I take a calming breath and fold my arms across my chest.

"Yes Garrick?"

I'm impressed that my voice sounds genuinely curious, rather than spitting his name out as if it were profanity. His eyes return to the stack of research that I had collated, my jaw clenches as I imagine how he is moments away from discarding all of it and somehow twisting my creation into something he can call his own. Masquerading the child born of my mind, as his own means of exercising control over the Districts. As he continues to flick through the manila folder that housed my projected targets of economic growth after the implementation of the games.

"This, this is phenomenal… You've accounted for everything. No one will be able to doubt your genius after this Corrine, how long have you been working on this? The idea of marketing the Games, makes me consider how we can 'market' the tributes. Oh, I like that: The tributes. What demographic will the tributes come from? How will they be selected? I like the idea of children paying for the parents' actions, in blood. They will be 'offered' in tribute… The arena? Oh there's so much to take in. You've done it all…"

I began to tune out of his awed rambling. Like the cat that got the cream, I suppress a triumphant smirk marring my features: My earlier worries cease to exist and I genuinely smile at DeMontford. Although I may be the more intelligent of us both, he possesses an undeniable charisma that would be pivotal in the manifestation of the 'Hunger Games' and now that it appears he is on-board. Well, now there is no limit to the suffering we can inflict on the Districts. As his rambling continues I pick up on random words such as 'Parade' and 'Televised interviews' as well as media training and bringing in a 'host' for the games. Relief bleeds through my system, although I conceded that 'public relations' were a necessary element in establishing the games: It was not something I particularly had the patience for.

"Garrick, while all of your proposals are definitely worth pursuit. I think that we're both aware that you are far more suited to deal with the more 'public' element of proceeding. I'm more than willing to deal with the pragmatic issues such as development and refurbishing the Battle Tower to house the tributes and provide training facilities."

DeMontford nods along in accordance of my admission. It is logical to exploit his Presidential status to promote the games, while my expertise would be best suited in creating elaborate traps and developing 'mutts' that would ensure and prolong the misery of the Districts; he leans back before pulling out a folder and scanning through the contents. Rather than redirecting the momentum of our conversation, I press on.

"As you may have seen, I've extensively documented the requirement for various roles we need to establish: District Liaison Officers, to escort the tributes to the Capitol and ensure they attend all necessary appointments throughout their stay. Trainers to ensure they have some semblance to combat training, after all we're selling this as a form of entertainment to the Capitol…I believe you mentioned a 'Host' or master of ceremonies: A valid point, we could exploit them as an advocate of the games who will interview necessary parties and such."

I smile encouragingly at DeMontford, the more that I push this as a way of benefitting the Capitol; this is no longer an errant thought of mine, but stepping closer to its imminent realization. I can almost taste the satisfaction I will feel the first time I witness one District's representative murder another's, or as someone loses their life to one of my perverse 'traps'. His grey eyes reflect my own emotional state. A pregnant pause pervades the atmosphere as we both reflect on the momentous changes about to rock Panem to its very core.

"Now then, you will obviously become the 'Head Gamemaker'; I admit myself enamoured with your use of that phrase. You will be responsible for all of the 'pragmatic' elements of the Games, and I shall deal with the 'public' aspect. Now that would mean you would need to ensure the refurbishment of the Battle Tower, find a suitable location to build the arena as well as building the arena. Obviously, all of our, as in the Capitol's, will be available and the budget is negotiable… I also think that it would be prudent for you to assemble a group of Gamemakers to assist you; although all creative decisions will be run via you. This is your masterpiece after all."

I simply nod my head in acceptance. Pride permeated my being, and I felt a foreign warmth blossom in my chest. 'Head Gamemaker', a position that in time would be held in a position of the highest esteem. Before he had even finished speaking, I had been to catalogue a number of my CapiCorp colleagues who would excel in the role of 'Gamemaker' as well as the various mutations and Geo-Constructive technology I could use throughout the games.

"If I'm focussing on the development of the arena and training programmes, then you're willing to finalise the more 'ostentatious' elements?"

Garrick nods his head in accordance with my question, for the last few minutes he had been continuously writing in a notepad that seemingly appeared from nowhere. He simply nodded his head before he continued to write something down, DeMontford then picked up another file and may have been cross referencing something. His neutral expression never wavered, while he continued to pursue the various files laid out before him. I pulled my CapiTab from my satchel and fashioned the rough draft of an e-mail for the selected colleagues I had catalogued earlier. As the e-mail is sent informing the chosen few that I would notify them when to meet me in my CapiCorp office to discuss something of 'urgent importance'.

"Corrine, it may be hasty for me to enquire: But how long do you think it would take for you to prepare everything? I have a general idea of how I would announce the games to the Districts, I also have a few people in mind for the various positions you've outlined. And I think I could sort everything on my end out within three weeks."

I would've rolled my eyes, but appearing disrespectful would not benefit me in this moment. His futile attempt to try and assert some form of dominance over me does not go unnoticed; I quickly register the prototypes of mutations available in my laboratories and the Geo-Constructive technologies that have been recently developed.

"I commend you on your capabilities, I work quickly but I doubt that I'll be completed within three weeks. I have a location in mind, and the technology available to construct the arena but combining this with the necessary refurbishments to the Battle Tower and the fact we have to devise a training programme. It's a lot of work, but I have faith that I can have this finished in six weeks. In fact I guarantee that within six weeks, everything on my end will be complete."

I could almost see his approval, he held out his hand which I shook, I could hear the vague grumbles of DeMontford attempting to start a conversation but I wave my hand to shut his monologue. I have far more pressing matters to be dealing with, such as ensuring that I avoid embarrassment by meeting the deadline I've set myself: My thoughts run wild, picturing faceless tributes been torn to pieces by the monstrosities I have the capabilities to create.

"Corinne, are you listening? Although the conversation of the games has been rather illuminating, for want of a better word. I'd been thinking if you'd like to—"

"Although your company has been more than pleasant Garrick, I need to leave. I have a lot of things I need to do. If you require contacting me with anything regarding the games, do not hesitate to contact me. As for now, good day"

Before he has the chance to reply, I am out of the door. Contacting my trusted assistant, Selena Crane, informing her to bring together me all of the files I had labelled XYZ: The very files I had assembled for the blessed day when, what is now known as 'The Hunger Games', would come to pass. Within minutes of exiting the mansion our President calls home, I had already contacted a number of Geo-Contractors and selected the location to be used for the arena: Some women rise to the top by marrying a man of worth. But Corrine Serpentia Snow would rise to the top of the Capitol's proverbial ladder by her own merit. I was destined for a role in history, and my contribution to 'The Hunger Games' was vital in embracing this role.

* * *

 _ **So what do we think of this chapter? The progression of the DeMontford/Snow collaboration. Also, a massive thank you to everyone who reviewed... and submitted Tributes, or asked for the form.**_

 _ **So, as for the last chapter's questions:**_

 _ **Gregor Samsa is the central character of Kafka's 'Metamorphosis' and I have been forced to study Berkoff's interpretation of the story**_

 _ **If were to herald from one of Panem's Districts, it would most likely be 6. I am intelligent, or like to think so, but I have a tendency to avoid the spotlight. Although 3 encapsulates the idea of intelligence, they were far too involved in the rebellion: I'd prefer playing 'Sweden' in a proverbial war… Though rest assured I have no drug problems.**_

 _ **So, the next questions for this chapter:**_

 _ **As a tribute, what would be your greatest asset heading into the Games?**_

 _ **What would you look for in the 'Perfect' ally in the Hunger Games?**_

 _ **The next chapter will include DeMontford's announcement of the 1**_ _ **st**_ _ **Annual Hunger Games, and hopefully a tribute POV. Plus, there may be more action than simple 'speech and thought' element present in these chapters.**_


	3. Chapter 1

_**This is a lacklustre chapter, and I apologise in advance but if I didn't put this up today it wouldn't be until Saturday (which is when the next update should be finished by) and I didn't want you to wait that long.**_

 _ **As for the previous questions**_

 _ **I like to think of myself as quite a good actress, at times. But I really think I could pull off a Mason and pull off the 'I'm weak, don't target me I'll die anyway' act before BOOM- Super Serial Killer mode activated.**_

 _ **I'd try to avoid an ally. Simple as, it would get messy and I don't doubt that I'd probably poison myself or be easily overpowered.**_

* * *

 _In my hand I held the document that would change the political landscape of Panem forevermore. For years a power struggle reined the land, and the Districts fought for their 'freedom'. They fought in vain, and now their crimes will come to light: To contest the supremacy of the Capitol. An unforgivable offence, an offence I have deemed treason. Their punishment outlined in the aptly named 'Treaty of Treason', The Hunger Games will haunt the Districts._

 _Corrine and I, we've manufactured a political weapon. A weapon more effective than anything exploited during 'The Dark Days'. This is our, as the Capitol's, insurance policy. A preventative measure, ensuring that history will never repeat itself: The Hunger Games have one purpose. A purpose I, and my most trusted counsel, believe it will fulfil. Crushing the fragile remnants of hope the Districts so desperately cling to, while fertilizing the seeds of grief, pain and sorrow that will blossom throughout Panem._

 _Today is a blessed day for the Capitol. No, it is 'the' Blessed Day. For the time has arrived, a time where the Hunger Games will no longer be contained to clandestine meetings and rushed conversations. They are coming. After today, they will no longer be hidden in the shadows. They will be brought into the spotlight, where they belong: They will mark the beginning of a new age in Panem. Where the Districts will atone for the sins of their forefathers in the most 'appropriate' way possible._

 _The velvet folder clasped in my hands appears to vibrate in my hand, as though the contents are anticipating the moment that they are laid out for the whole of Panem to see. I caress the rigid spine of the folder with my forefinger, my mind whirling with the numerous developments I'd witnessed in preparation for today: The excitement glistening in Corrine's cerulean eyes as she gave me a tour of her 'Command Centre'. The unadulterated bliss that enveloped her as we witnessed the destruction the mutations she had manufactured in preparation for the Games. The tinkling soprano of her laugh as Avoxes were torn to pieces by the 'mutts'._

 _Six weeks. In only six weeks, we had nurtured the Hunger Games from an idea into the imminent doom it represents for the Districts. The Arena's construction had reached completion only days ago, the 'Tribute Tower' was fully refurbished and the finest Head Hunters in the Capitol were able to assemble a team of 'Escorts' and interim 'Mentors'. Corrine had assembled a rigid training regime for when the tributes arrived in the Capitol; and I was concluding negotiations with an assortment of media and public relation servicemen to assemble an itinerary concerning the 'public showcasing' of tributes prior to entering the Arena._

 _Colour me astounded, but I thought this was an impossible feat. But Corrine and I, we have done it. We're now ready to make the announcement that will shake Panem to its very core. In one month from today, the very day that will mark the third month since the Capitol emerged victorious from the War, the Hunger Games will begin. And it all begins tonight._

* * *

 **Catherine 'Cat' Forbes, 15, District Seven.**

The announcement was made hours ago, the whole District's presence was mandatory for President DeMontford's 'premiere address of Panem'. Somehow, people had been living in ignorance: The rebellion was over. But the repercussions weren't: If anyone was naïve enough to think the dramatic increase in the presence of 'Peacekeepers' was the only consequence we'd be facing. Well, then they are more than deserving the ire of the 'trigger happy' foot soldiers of the Capitol.

It didn't sit right with me, this whole 'address' business, and while I may not be the most academically intelligent person – I've learned to trust my instincts, and right now they're screaming at me that things can only get worse. The Capitol as an institution aren't ones to graciously accept their Victory and allow the Districts of Panem to resume living their lives as if the 'Dark Days' never were.

They may appear nothing more than conceited idiots, with their whimsical style and grating superficiality. But idiots don't win Wars; they aren't responsible for systematically breaking down the defences of the allied Districts. They're every bit as callous and savage as they paint us to be: And that is concerning. They won't only gloat about the District's failed attempts to wrestle the control of Panem from the Capitol; they will seek to punish us. To humiliate us the way we humiliated them, but I doubt even that will be enough. I don't know how, but I know that the Districts of Panem are going to endure suffering and oppression far more devastating than simple War.

"Cathy, dinner is almost ready."

But until we know exactly what the Capitol are holding in store for us, life will go on as 'normal'. I stand from where I'd been sitting in the living area of the cabin, fascinated as the final embers met their demise: The orange flames fading to nothing more than grey ash. Ignoring the irony of how the dying flames mirrored the state of District 7, I make my way into the kitchen-cum-bathroom and wordlessly take the cutlery from my mother's full hands. A weak smile fractures the hopeless expression that has haunted her expression for the last three months. I simply nod my head in response, the anxiety bubbling in my chest makes smiling impossible, before laying the table.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Mom just shakes her head before returning to the cooking pot, whatever simmers inside doesn't smell appetizing but I know that it's the best we've got. The rations allocated to feed our family of three would barely stave off the hunger of a toddler, but we don't complain: 'Old' Gordy Rogers was imbecilic enough to openly moan about the lack of food. Trying to rally support of how unfair it is that the Capitol and their 'Peacekeepers' eat like Kings, while we are slowly starving on the scraps that have fallen from their table. As fair of a point as he had made, the bullet put between his eyes were enough to hush the complaints of the District.

Boredom begins to sink in while my mother focusses on trying to fashion to concoction into something edible, my fingers begin to twitch: Months ago I would've sat outside sharpening my father's axe with a grinding stone. But even that small pleasure is denied to me now, the Capitol thought it was 'of above necessary risk' to allow people of the Districts to keep anything that could be classified as a weapon in their homes. Despite the restrictions imposed on us since the rebellion ended, my father was usually able to break up the monotony of what our lives had become with his sarcastic wit and dry humour. His absence coupled with my mother's penance for worrying, made for a rather tense atmosphere.

"Do you know when Pops will be back?"

My mother paused momentarily, her olive coloured eyes darting to the clock that hung above the doorway. She sighed to herself before putting a ladle of 'stew into two bowls and bringing them to the table. Placing one before me, I wrinkled my nose at the beige coloured mush and brushed off my mother's apologetic look with a small smile: The curling motion of my lips feeling foreign.

"I thought he would be back for something to eat, he's always worked long hours. But lately they've been working the 'Jacks so hard, they barely have time to sleep never mind eat or spend time with their family."

I would've grinned at my mother's incensed state, but my mouth hung open in genuine shock. Her anxious nature meant she was prone to keeping what she was thinking to herself, especially criticism of the Capitol as the Peacekeepers were known to appear from nowhere and hand out extreme 'punishments' to those who were 'slanderous' to the Capitol. The brash notion of condemning the Capitol, however subtle the disapproval may be, was more suited to my father's outgoing character. A sparkle appeared in her eyes at my bewildered expression, a sparkle that had been notably absent as of late, before pouring us both a glass of water.

"Do you think that he'll be back before we have to head down to the Glade? Or do you think they'll keep the 'Jacks at the yard: I mean, lately the Capitols demand for timber has gone through the roof."

My mother blanches at my words, looking round as if expecting a Peacekeeper to burst through the door and sentence me to 50 lashings. When nothing happens she giggles a little before sampling our meal for the night, begrudgingly swallowing down the beige paste and washing it down with a swig of water.

Mimicking her actions, I cringe as it hits my tongue: The bland smell was nothing in comparison to the lingering taste of burnt rubber and I take a sip of water. If I weren't sure that this is all we have, I'd have pushed the bowl away and refused to eat but nobody has the privilege of turning down a meal nowadays. My mother seems to be thinking along the same lines as we shamelessly shovel the contents of the bowls' into our mouths and chase it down with our water.

"He'll be back, or at least let out of work for the announcement, the Capitol has made it mandatory after all."

At the mere mention of the 'address' my mother succumbs to her anxiety again. She's not an idiot like some people, she knows that the Districts will face 'backlash' for the rebellion but it wouldn't do well for her to ponder on it: Although what awaits us is probably more horrific than anything my mother can imagine. So as any dutiful daughter would, I steer the conversation to safer topics: The weather, the saplings we had planted a few days ago and how Horace Umberton would embarrass himself next. Although I doubt he will be able to top the 'Butternut Squash' incident from last year.

* * *

I was drying the crockery mother has washed and putting them back into the cupboard, the atmosphere in the house was becoming more and more stifling. My own anxiety reaching dangerous levels as I watched my mother's eye continually go towards the clock and the continuous ringing of her hands. Before the rebellion ended, I would've just left walking through the forests that surround the town to clear my head. But that is no longer a possibility.

The Peacekeepers are stationed at every entrance to the forest and only licenced 'Jacks can enter what was once my safe haven. Instead, I attempt to draw my mom into light conversation about the most mundane things: Cross stitch and bird calls. She gave me one word answers, and her glances towards the clock became even more frequent. We eventually fell into a silence that was far from comfortable, our strange camaraderie from earlier forgotten.

A series of short knocks resounded throughout the cabin, and the plate my mom held in her hands clattered to the floor. It was almost comical how her eyes widened and her fear became even more palpable, and it wasn't difficult to imagine the various scenarios that were running through her head: An insincere apology concerning an 'accident' at the Lumber Yard or Peacekeepers storming the house and arresting us for some trumped up charge.

While neither was terribly unlikely, I refuse to become paralysed with fear every time someone knocks the door. I can practically hear my mother's anxiety spike, my own heart racing as I pull the door open. A sigh of relief escapes me as I spot the familiar head of honey blonde hair and baby blue eyes: Lucille Carlton, one of the few people I'd call a friend, and most definitely not a gun wielding Peacekeeper.

"Hey Cat, Mrs. Forbes. Ermmm..Why do you both look like I've grown an extra head?"

Her blunt question is enough to burst the proverbial bubble of disquiet and for the first time in weeks: The sound of laughter rings throughout the Forbes household. Mom rushes over and pulls Lucy into a bone crushing hug before pulling her into the house and shutting the door: The nervous energy that had been permeating the house evaporates and my mother begins to shower her with random questions about her family, and Lucille happily blathers on about her brother's latest 'antics'.

Lucille's bubbly nature can be hard to stomach at times, and her perpetual cheeriness can grate on my nerves. But I am thankful that she seems to have distracted mom from her endless worrying, however temporary it may be. I could be resentful that Lucille has successfully distracted my mother from her constant fretting, especially after my fruitless attempts to do the same over the last hour or so. But what others describe as my 'abrasive' or 'aloof' attitude generally prevents me of being supportive in an emotional sense.

"So, while I'm glad you've popped by Luce. Why are you here?"

Lucille extracts herself from my mother, giving me a wink as my mother leaves to continue cleaning the kitchen. Lucy raises an eyebrow, silently questioning my mother's weirdly exuberant mood. I had indulged in moaning about my mother's constant state of unease over the last few weeks; I just roll my eyes and shrug my shoulders.

"Well Kitty Cat, since we've got to go down to the Glade laters. Some of us were thinking of going down early and having a catch up; with all these pesky Peacekeepers popping up everywhere and ushering us from pillar to bloody post, we've barely seen each other but now they're busy setting everything up for this blooming 'address' thing"

I chuckle, realising that however bubbly Lucy may be: It would never stop her speaking her mind. Looking over my shoulder, I catch my mother's eyes: The distinctive olive hue being a feature she shares with me. She just smiles half-heartedly before beginning to usher us out of the house and muttering about 'busy hands, busy mind', I suspect I may return to a spotlessly clean cabin that has had all of the furniture rearranged.

Stepping into the late summer chill, I pulled my grey cardigan close to try and keep warm as the early evening breeze rattled my wiry frame. I've seen in at least a hundred times, but every time it makes me pause for a moment: The drastic differences District 7 has witnessed over the last few months is unsettling.

We were never the most affluent of Districts, but we were a community: It was a regular occurrence for people to stand in the street to catch up or for groups of teenagers to wonder through the woods while chatting about the day. Both of those practices were redundant nowadays: Peacekeepers patrolled the streets and scrutinized every little thing said or done by anyone, and the lush forestry that surrounds the various towns that compile District 7 are now sectioned off by tall, wire fences. Caged and constantly observed like a 3's science experiment.

I see my own melancholy reflected in Lucille's eyes, but before I can fall apart I clear my throat and continue walking along the pavement. As Lucille mentioned, the Peacekeepers were scarce and so a few people were converged on street corners speculating about what the President's address would be: Lucy and I did not hesitate to scoff and ridicule the more absurd suggestions. Compensation? Peace Treaties? Apologies from the Capitol? I would tell them that the chances of such things happening were as likely as surviving the apocalypse.

"So what do you think it's about Cat? Cause while I know they're not gonna start throwing money at the Districts and call it compensation…I don't know what they're gonna do and it is starting to shit me up."

I'm trying to think of what to say to Lucille. How I could try and reassure her that nothing bad will happen, but I can't: People might not like the truth because the truth hurts, but lies are deadly. And I would never lie to a friend, we continue walking as I try to think of something that will drive the point home that we're royally screwed.

"We're the rabid dogs of Panem Luce, and we bit the hand that fed us."

I can see confusion in Lucille's eyes, the analogy is pretty straightforward. It's the same thing that's been haunting my thoughts since this 'Address' was announced: We can only imagine the horrors that await the Districts of Panem. The Capitol is not merciful and they're not discrete: So why should I be?

"And you know what happens to rabid dogs Lucy? They get put down"

* * *

 _ **Okay, so leave a review. I'm still in need of tributes and if you've reserved a slot, then try and get them to me as soon as you can. Because I have outlines for the next 4 chapters (and by that I have pretty detailed plan) and I have the arena and certain interactions etc. planned already.**_

 _ **What did we think of Cathy? She was pretty difficult to write in the beginning because she's a complex character. But at 15, I confused myself to no end.**_

 *****Big thanks to KaylaDeLana for submitting Cathy Forbes*****

 _ **I'm not going to ask questions this chapter, instead I have a request: I have been writing quotes for the tributes, for example the quote from the D2 Female is along the lines of "Only the good die young, so it's pretty fortunate that I'm bad."**_

 _ **What would you 'Hunger Games Quote' be?**_

 _ **And now: The Tribute List. (There is another reservation for a slot, but the person didn't specify which one)**_

 **District One**

 _ **M: Safir DeNoire, 18**_

 _ **F: RESERVED**_

 **District Two**

 _ **M: Holton Varnado, 17**_

 _ **F: Malva Kaestner, 16**_

 **District Three**

 _ **M: Fletcher Kane, 16**_

 _ **3: Didgit Slatter, 18**_

 **District Four**

 _ **M: Ari Grey, 18**_

 _ **F: RESERVED**_

 **District Five**

 _ **M: Edison Foster, 12**_

 _ **F: Quinn Lectra, 13**_

 **District Six**

 _ **M: RESERVED**_

 _ **F: RESERVED**_

 **District Seven**

 _ **M: RESERVED**_

 _ **F: Catherine 'Cat' Forbes, 15**_

 **District Eight**

 _ **M: Patrick Weaver, 18**_

 _ **F: Issy Jansingh, 17**_

 **District Nine**

 _ **M: Faron Jennings, 13**_

 _ **F: Millet Rye, 18**_

 **District Ten**

 _ **M: RESERVED**_

 _ **F: Dai Roniker, 16**_

 **District Eleven**

 _ **M: Weller Worthen, 12**_

 _ **F: RESERVED**_

 **District Twelve**

 _ **M: Maxxie 'Max' Benthoven Bent, 14.**_

 _ **F: RESERVED**_

 _ **Thanks**_

 _ **-Nellie xx**_


	4. Chapter 2

**I'm so grateful for the level of support you, as the readers, have given me. The amazing tribute submissions and overall positive feedback motivate me to keep writing. This chapter has taken longer to write than expected because I've been writing out of order and Tobias, my trusted Toshiba has been out of commission for almost a week :(**

 **But on the plus side, I have bits and pieces from the Games themselves already written… So, while this has taken stupidly long to get out: I've made a lot of overall progress.**

 **As for what my quote would be: 'Laters bitches, I gots to run'**

* * *

 **Quinn Lectra, 13, District Five.**

Everything has got to be perfect. Brushing my chocolate brown hair into a low ponytail, I eye the 'cosmetics' Mama had laid out for me to use wearily: That imminent disaster can wait until I've picked what to wear for tonight. Flicking through my wardrobe I pick out a yellow blouse and a pair of black capris, while tonight may be a celebration I don't think it would be in my best interests to dress too ostentatiously. For the Lectra family have been deemed 'Traitors' to the District, and I have no intentions of the target plastered on my back getting any bigger.

I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece, 5.15, which means my parents are due back in just over thirty minutes. Leaving my bedroom, I head over to Sean's bedroom and knock lightly on the door: For my parent's sake, tonight has to be perfect. And I won't let Sean's poor time management, and recent abhorrent attitude sabotage that. I can hear Sean moving around inside, he is either ignoring me or he hasn't heard. Remembering that this is Sean, not Saige that I'm dealing with: He is definitely ignoring me, like the 'sullen teenager' my parents have branded him lately.

"Sean, I know you can hear me. Answer the door."

Pressing my ear against the door, I hear him stop moving momentarily. Of course, my request is ignored and I begin to feel a little frustrated. We've never been ones to be close and sharing secrets, but lately he's taken to completely ignoring the whole family and disappearing to who knows where until late in the evening: It makes no sense. We're meant to be happy, the Capitol won the War and now we're one of the few families in the whole District who will reap the rewards. Tired of being ignored, I twist the door handle and push the door open.

I gasp as I see the state of his room, clothes from his dresser strewn haphazardly against the floor and a pile of bags stuffed with God only knows what under the window. If our parents saw this, they would suffer a coronary: Our bedrooms are representative of us, and in turn the Lectra family. They're to be kept tidy, having an untidy room means you're disorganised and careless: Qualities that nobody should affiliate with our family. Sean's room looks as if a bomb has hit it, or a freak tornado has torn through his room.

"What—"

Before I can even form a sentence Sean has rounded on me, his narrow face tinged scarlet and his blue eyes narrowed in distaste. I take an involuntary step backwards, heart hammering with fear: I've never seen Sean this angry. His fists are balled, and when I ascertain that he isn't going to attack me I notice that his right eye wasn't only narrowed. It was swollen shut, and I notice the beginning of a bruise forming beneath it.

"What happened Sean, why have you been fighting? Mama and Papa will go ballistic when they see your eye. They didn't raise us to act like savages."

My fear hasn't receded but I'm confident that my brother won't harm me. That, however, doesn't mean that my parents won't be displeased. In fact, since the War ended they've been patiently awaiting recognition for their loyalty to the 'winning side'. But appearing in public alongside their son with a black eye, appearing as if he is nothing more than a common street urchin, is most definitely not how they imagined it unfolding. Sean just folds his arms across his chest, jaw clenched as his face assumes an expression of disdain tinged with disbelief.

"I wasn't acting like a savage, Quinnie. I was attacked, not that you or 'they' would care. So why don't you fuck off out of my face and go and get ready to see how far you can fit your head up our parents' asses."

I've never been so glad that my parents have been out of the house, it would be awful if they heard the coarse language Sean was using. His words should sting, but right now I'm more concerned with making my brother look presentable so that my parents are not made out to look like fools in front of the rest of the District: Maybe I could cover the bruise with some of the mineral cosmetic powder Mama had left for me.

"Of course I care Sean, but today is a celebration and we cannot let anything interfere with it: I think I can cover your bruise with some of the makeup that Mama left for me. And then after the President's address, we can think of something to tell our parents. Like you fell over or something."

As I say the words, the more convinced of my little plan I become. And I am rather shocked that I came up with it so quickly: Being dishonest is something I would never normally endorse, especially in regards to my parents. But this is for the greater good, nothing can ruin today: It has to be perfect. Sean just scoffs, his eyes widening with something I could only describe as pity as he looks at me before a sigh of exasperation slips between his lips.

"Fuck the President, fuck the Capitol and most of all fuck you, and those idiots we call parents, 'Long live the Capitol' bullshit – Long live the rebellion."

I have to grasp the door frame to prevent myself tumbling to the floor. The room seems to spin as Sean's words have knocked me for six: My mouth hanging open as I look at my brother. My brother who is practically a blasphemous traitor, once again I am thanking an unknown deity for my parents' absence. What would make him say such a thing?

I remember reading about post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe when he was attacked, he fell and hit his head which caused brain damage. I may not know exactly what is causing this erratic behaviour, but I've got to get it sorted before my parents arrive home: Today is a cause for celebration, and in their eyes Sean's attitude could not be tolerated.

"Sean. I don't know what happened, but I am sorry. Now, while you get dressed: I'm going to finish getting ready and then I can help you get ready for the Celebration. Tomorrow, whoever did this will be punished and we can move on as if nothing ever happened. I promise I won't tell Mama and Papa about what you said, just don't ruin this for them. Please."

I believe my brother would appear more understanding if I told him I had grown a sixth toe or an extra arm. Instead, he laughs: A mirthless laugh where I can hear the resonance of incredulity. He just shakes his head and sits on the end of the bed, watching me as if I were the star attraction at a freak show. Rather than becoming self-conscious at his bizarre behaviour, I bustle around the room trying to choose something for him to wear and tidy simultaneously. Chancing a glance at the clock on his bedroom wall, I have 20 minutes or so to make sure everything is perfect.

"What are you doing? Just stop."

Even with my parents imminent return home, I find myself freezing at my brother's tone. He sounds almost bored, which is ludicrous since he knows as well as I do how disappointed our parents will be if they come home and realise that we're not dressed and ready to leave. That was the one instruction they had given us, and not following instructions was something I couldn't do.

"You know Quinn that nothing is going to change right? That are parents are fucking ridiculous for crawling up the Capitols ass. Hanging that pissing flag outside has well and truly screwed us."

I shake my head, if only this could be some absurd dream. But it's not; a thousand excuses run through my mind as to how I am meant to explain Sean's inexplicable behaviour. Sean's lips tilt upward, morphing into a patronizing smirk: His head tilting to the side, watching me in the midst of my mini-breakdown. Of all the days Sean has to begin displaying symptoms of a mental illness, it has to be today. I pull a pair of his trousers from the floor and mechanically fold them before putting them in his dresser.

"Nothing to say? Maybe because you know that I'm right, we're the ones at the bottom of this proverbial pile of shit. For fuck's sake, our own District hates us: If it weren't for everyone afraid of the Peacekeeper's punishment, we would've been burnt in our bed as we slept. The Capitol wouldn't care if that happened because NEWSFLASH: The Capitol only care for the Capitol. Do you have pearlescent hair, or eyelashes that could be used as feather dusters?"

Disbelief is my initial reaction, but I cannot doubt the sincerity bleeding through into his tone. For a second I can believe the words coming out of his mouth, and fear cripples me for a moment: Imagining fire licking at my pale skin. In my mind's eye, I compare my own features to those of the typical Capitolite: He's right. I am nondescript in my appearance with my pale blue eyes, brown hair and narrow facial features; paling in comparison to the exuberance of the Capitol with their luminescent hair and skin tones and the array of cosmetic enhancements.

"No, you're wrong Sean. Physically they're different, but they're human: We will be rewarded for our loyalty. But if you continue with this 'Capitol hatred' then you'll be punished."

I was clinging to the philosophy of my parents: We gift the Capitol with their loyalty; they gift us with our greatest desires. The poison of Sean's words begins to fade as the conviction of my, and my parents', beliefs strengthens. I just stare at my brother: What am I meant to do about this? Sean's gaze became imploring, asking me to understand. But I can't. I won't, my parents have never failed me before and I know that they won't now: But Sean's words linger in the back of my mind. I can feel the exasperation pouring from him, but I can also feel something faint permeating the air: The imploring for me to understand has wilted away and festered into desperation.

"Quinn, you're my sister and for fucks sake, I love you. So please take off the rose tinted glasses and stop eating up the bullshit your parents are feeding you. The Capitol, they're up to something. Something big, and your 'loyalty' isn't going to make you immune to whatever plague is about to hit Panem. You, Ma, Pa, even Saige: You've served your purpose… But we can change it—"

Before he could finish his sentence, a sentence I knew would basically sign a warrant for his death. I threw my hand up and fled the room, throwing myself into my own bedroom and beginning to barricade the door shut before falling to the floor. This is not what was meant to happen, I was to go into Sean's room and reprimand him for not being ready; he wasn't supposed to try and pollute my mind with thoughts of things like revolution. It was uncouth and my parents would not approve.

He will get shot. The Peacekeepers would execute my brother for this treason; his blasphemous words warrant him to take his last breath. Maybe it would be easier for my family as a whole if Sean were to be killed, we wouldn't be marred by his rebel friendly thoughts and as a family, we could mourn his loss and move forward. No, he is my brother and family is family; loyalty to the Capitol can only go so far but until then. Long live the Capitol.

* * *

 **Garrick DeMontford, Capitol President.**

The lights are blinding, the wall of sound crashes against me where I stand: The balcony overlooking the Presidential Gardens. As my eyes slowly adjust to the frequent bursts of bright light from the paparazzi amassed below, I can make out the outlines of thousands of Capitolites.

Without a doubt, this is the largest gathering I'd witnessed in my lifetime and the reason was me: The icon of 'New Panem'. The 'Hero' who fought valiantly against the Districts and their futile plight for 'freedom'. The man who ensured that everybody recognised the absolute dominance of the Capitol, and that thought causes my maroon painted lips to tilt upwards in a lazy smirk.

Lifting my hand I wave to the masses, basking in their adoration and smiling as the cacophony of sound reaches new levels as they made their love of their new President known. And tonight can only get better, once the Hunger Games are announced and take their rightful place in the spotlight: I will, without a doubt, become the most esteemed President to have ever held Panem within their grip.

My media assistant, Galileo Smithers, gives the non-verbal gesture to let me know that confirmation had been received from Peacekeepers throughout Panem. All eyes were officially on me, and it was time for the show to begin. Stepping closer to the microphone I clear my throat and the effect is instantaneous: The blinding lights disappear, and the area became blanketed in complete silence. An effect I am most sure has been mirrored throughout the Nation. I allow a short, but loaded, pause: Feeling the electric tension thrum through the air.

"Good evening Panem, firstly allow to thank you all for being present for what I hope will be the first of many addresses I intend to make throughout my tenure as President…"

A smattering of applause breaks out, and within second all of those amassed before me are clapping their hands with fierce rigour. I simply raise my hand and they applause fades out as quickly as it had begun. Somehow, I feel as though my reception in the Districts isn't as warm as that of my fellow Capitolites: And I have no doubts that it will only become frostier as the evening progresses.

"Since the end of the War. Since the 'Dark Days' were banished by the light of the Capitol, I have pondered a rather difficult situation. War is never a beneficial thing, but it is the responsibility of those who emerged victorious to re-establish and maintain a new economic and socio-political equilibrium. And therein lies the problem, how can I restore the economic and political crisis' that ravage Panem? It plagued my every waking thought, and at times I was sure there was no answer to be found…"

A collective gasp ripples throughout the audience, and I have to bite back the Cheshire cat grin threatening to make itself known. I have never doubted my charisma, but they're taking in every word falling from my lips as though it is gospel. My manufactured humility is being honed to mass effect: The Capitol are sympathising with the man haunted by this massive responsibility. The Districts may even dare to share a collective sigh of relief. But the winds of change, that I hear whistling in the distance, will have no problem negating the smoke and mirror foundations of my 'humility'.

"But as your President, I work in servitude to Panem. And I take my role seriously, and after discussing the issue at length with my esteemed counsel: I found the answer that had been evading me for so long. And that answer is found in this document…"

From a briefcase I had placed at my side, I pulled out the black folder: So plain, almost uninspiring to look at. I can sympathise with the evident surprise I see on the Capitolite's faces on the nearby projector, they had probably expected something more 'extravagant' and an accompanying firework display. I could imagine how Corrine would condemn their presumptuousness, but now is time to alleviate their ignorance to what is contained within the folder.

"Within this folder lies a document I signed only hours ago, one that I am confident will alter the socio-political landscape of Panem forevermore. It is the 'Treaty of Treason' and it outlines the arrival of The Annual Hunger Games…"

Hushed whispers can be heard, curiosity swiftly becomes the predominant tone of the Capitol. I can only try to imagine what they may be thinking: In the Capitol, they're probably imagining an all you can eat buffet; while the Districts are probably dreading the idea of harsher rationings of food. If only it were so simple, I let the muttering continue for a short while before clearing my throat and ensuring that I am once again the focal point of Panem's attention.

"Each District of Panem will offer two tributes, one male and one female, between the ages of twelve and eighteen. These twenty four tributes will be escorted to the Capitol by one of our recently elected 'District Liaison Officers' who will then tutor them in Capitol etiquette before they receive a customised make over and participate in the 'Capitol Parade'…"

I smile, the confusion I am sure has swept throughout the whole of Panem lingers in the air. Naysayers within the Capitol, they are most likely verbally condemning me for allowing the 'District Threat' to enter the Capitol's 'sanctuary': Well who am I to deny them their momentary Victory. I can almost smell the bitter odour of discomfort emanating from the Capitolites before me, and as their President it is my duty to reassure them.

"After this, the tributes will confer with their 'Mentors' on things from strategy to physical skills. They will face three days of training in various areas, under the tutelage of the Capitol's finest: Before having to prepare a short demonstration of what they have learned within those three days for a panel of 'Gamemakers'. The following day they will take part in a televised interview, and the following day they will enter the Arena… For while twenty four may enter the Hunger Games Arena, only one will leave. These twenty four tributes will partake in a battle to the death, with the last remaining tribute being named Victor."

There it was, my answer to the Capitol's call for District blood: The Hunger Games. A tradition where the District will be punished for their 'rebellion' and it is all packaged as entertainment for the Capitol: A blood sport where they affect the outcome, they can bet on their favourites. It takes a moment before the crowds explode: The applause is overwhelming, like thunder rolling through tempestuous skies.

Looking through the lens of the camera, I try to imagine the devastation my declaration has inflicted on the Districts: The harrowing realisation that the children will pay for their forefather's sins year after year. Will Mother's cling to their children in a vain attempt to shield them from the Capitol's retribution? Were they truly stupid enough to think that they could evade the wrath of those they had tried to overthrow? A triumphant grin lights up my face as I realise that, for the District's, it will only get worse from here on out; the noise begins to dim and the Capitolites are more receptive to my gestures to remain quiet.

"In one month from today, the third month since the 'Dark Days' ended. Each District will host the Reaping ceremony to select their male and female tributes. They will be allowed a short while to say goodbye to their loved ones, before being brought before the Capitol… I am sure that there are many questions you believe to be unanswered. I am aware of this, but I do not believe that I am the most qualified person to answer such enquiries. Therefore, my partner and the 'Head Gamemaker' for the first Hunger Games: Corrine Snow, will be sitting down with Yuliana Cortez of Capitol Today to answer such questions and elaborate on anything else I may have said during this address. The Districts will be receiving a duplicate of the article once it has been published. So for now, Happy Hunger Games. And for those in the Districts, may the odds be ever in your favour".

As I leave the balcony, I hear the raucous celebration of the Capitol resume. Relief floods my body like a shot of adrenaline: I had not realised I was nervous. But it was done now, and without further ado: Welcome to the 1st Annual Hunger Games. And for the Districts, let them not be quick to forget, that the odds will never be in their favour.

* * *

 **Fletcher Kane, 16, District Three.**

I had been lying in bed for what felt like hours, but every time I dare to close my eyes I replay the scene I had to endure earlier. The complete devastation that fell upon the District of Technology, I remember my initial curiosity of these Hunger Games: Twenty four District children being allowed to stay in the Capitol, the chance to see how the other half live. What a farce, we can experience the life of a Capitolite for a few days before being thrown into an arena where pretty much the only rule is 'kill or be killed'.

It was awful; I mean there's a possibility that I could be one of the kids shipped off to go and get murdered in the name of Capitol entertainment. Which I'm pretty sure is another reason that sleeping is impossible right now: The invisible axe at my neck does very little in terms of helping me relax. Technically, suppression has been used to help control people for as long as history is documented in Panem. Whether it is food rationing, or something as simple as docking wages for punctuality.

But this is just sadistic, we're meant to be civilised beings: This is just so ironic. The Capitol practically label us as barbarians and then sit down and think 'hey guys, you know what would be a great idea? Killing multiple children'. We all knew it was coming. Something was going to happen: Maybe I was too optimistic to be thinking something along the lines of 'Unpaid Work Sentences' or even an increased frequency of house inspections. This trying to sleep business is not going to happen; every few seconds I either think of another reason the Capitol are fascist bastards. Or maybe a thousand and one ways I'd like to kill DeMontford and his whole 'Allied Capitol Forces'.

Dad always said emotions can hurt you a hell of a lot more than anything else. I doubt he believed that when he was publicly executed for his 'affiliation' with the rebel forces, but right now I believe he was right. I don't know if I'm meant to be horrified, guilty or simply distraught. I don't know if I want to cry and scream, or reign down on the Capitol like an avenging God. It feels as though I'm seconds away from spontaneously combusting with all these emotions running a marathon through my mind.

THUD. THUD.

I roll my eyes; I don't even need to look outside to know who it is: Roran and Caio. My two best friends and more than likely my bad influences. Especially with this Hunger Games shit storm going on. I hear something knock against my bedroom window again before rushing to pull it open: Ten points to me. Before me stands Roran, with his sandy blonde hair and chocolate coloured eyes. Before he can even open his mouth, I've thrown my hand over it.

"What are you doing here, Ro? You know that the patrols are heavier around here lately."

I can't help but look around, dreading what would happen if Roran was caught by a Peacekeeper breaking curfew. That's all I need after this Hunger Games shit, and my Mother's subsequent 'breakdown': For my best friend's brain to be splattered all over the walls of the house. That is a great image to go along with distraught parent's crumbling at the realisation that their children could be dead in as little as a month. Roran doesn't seem concerned in the slightest, in fact his brown eyes are glittering with mischief and a dimple appears in his right cheek due to the cheeky grin adorning his face. I always suspected he'd been dropped on his head as a child.

"Fletch, it's tonight. Caio's gone off with Llana and a few of the others to cause a distraction. We're gonna try and see if we can get in touch with any of the other Districts: I mean you're the one that's adamant that 13 ain't been blown off the face of the planet, plus you're probably the best at working the transmitters and all that."

I couldn't help my eyes from darting all over the place, growing up during a War definitely made you more cautious than most. And while Caio may be more than proficient at keeping Peacekeepers busy, I'm not stupid enough to think that the Capitol only have them watching us. I'd read all about 'bugging' technology in a few of the old engineering textbooks we'd managed to get our hands on. Once I'm sure that we've gotten as much privacy as possible I'm about to give him my pretty renowned 'District 13 has not been destroyed, but rather forced underground speech' when I realise that for once Roran has a point. A valid point: The Capitol thinks that they can suppress us with these Hunger Games. They're wrong; they've just given us something else to fight for.

"Two minute—"

"What the fuck is going on here?"

I feel myself blanch, I gulp before turning to face my sister. Her eyes are narrowed at both me and Roran, who decides then to duck out of view and tie his shoelaces. She may only be 5'3'', but one of Tahlia Kane's glares can turn a grown man into a quivering mess. And as her brother, I'm no exception. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, one eyebrow raised as if asking for an answer: But my sister isn't one to ask, she is more prone to demanding answers. My throat feels dry and I begin to make random hand gestures in lieu of a verbal explanation.

"Well Tahlli, me and Fletch are basically about to go and stick it to the Capitol. They think they've—"

Tahlia doesn't even wait for him to finish speaking. She walks over and slams the window to drown out whatever else he may have said. I practically flinch as she rounds on me, her hands planted firmly on her hips: Definitely scarier than any Peacekeeper you'll find on the streets. But dealing with her wrath will be worth it in the long run. I mean, as someone who is not a complete tool, I have a responsibility to do something about the Capitol and their recent fascination with killing children.

"Sis, you've got to understand: This is crucial, we need to get in touch with the other Districts. We need to see if we can get those old transmitters to pick up signals, we need to fight back. I'm more determined to take the Capitol down now than I ever was during the War…They're taking the piss, and I know that Mom made us promise that we wouldn't do anything else. But come on Till?"

I don't know where the weird speech came from, a badly written play by the sound of it in my own ears. But it's true: We have one month to try and stop these Hunger Games, so sitting around in my bedroom. It was surreal to be honest, hearing myself speak like that. Tahlia just appraises me for a second before opening the window, Roran glares at her but she blatantly ignores his rebuke.

"Right, Mom's already out cold. I gave her a little something to help her sleep, you know with the stress of the Capitol's fuckery. But I'll be damned if she wakes up to find another one of the family dead Fletch. I'm not going to stop you going, you're more of a man than most of them coward fucker's who are bending over backwards to suck up to the Capitol and their bastard Peacekeepers: But please, be quick and don't get yourself killed or I'll bring you back to life before killing you again."

Tahlia just smiles at me, and I feel the expression mirrored on my own features. And I don't know if it is a 'telepathic sibling' thing but I know that she's proud of me, and more than likely itching to come along and raise Hell in whatever way she can. But she won't, instead she just pulls me into a bone crushing hug before pulling a penknife from her cleavage and handing it over to me. I roll my eyes as Roran's eyes zone in on my sister's cleavage, the whole thing is disturbing but she saves me the stress of doing anything when she reaches over and slaps him across the back of the head.

"Now, piss off and don't get caught."

Tahlia leaves the room as I'm pulling on my shoes. Shouting a 'Good luck' before going to do whatever it is my sister does when she's not harassing me, or scaring the shit out of me and my friends. And then I'm off out the window and ready to raise Hell for the Capitol. Roran goes to open his mouth, and I know what's coming: His usual declaration of how he and Tahlia are destined to be together and so on so forth. And since I'm not really in the mood to listen to it, I take a leaf out of my sister's book and slap him across the head.

"Seriously dude, she's my sister. So shut up, and come on: I believe we have some trouble to be getting into?"

* * *

 _ **Hunger Games: Questions Answered**_

 _ **-a sit down meeting with newly appointed 'HEAD GAMEMAKER', Corrine Snow**_

 _ **-Yuliana Cortez**_

 _Sat in one of the spacious laboratories of CapiCorp, opposite one of the most powerful women in Panem. Biochemical engineer, turned mastermind of a social revolution. She's beautiful, she's intelligent and she is here to answer the questions I've compiled since President Garrick DeMontford's flawless address only days ago._

 _ **So, Corrine. The President himself has declared that you are true genius behind the Hunger Games. What do you have to say to that?**_

 _Well credit is given where credit is due Yuliana, the concept was something I'd been thinking of for a while. But it was a truly collaborative process between Garrick and myself, we both have roles to fill. I know very little about how to brand the concept as 'entertainment'; rather I have been working on developing suitable mutations and an Arena where the tributes will compete. I feel it necessary to reassure anyone who may be reading this transcript: The training provided has been tailored to help the tributes assimilate into whichever environment the Arena will simulate._

 _ **Is there anything you can tell us about the Arena? What the Capitol could be expected to see?**_

 _No Comment. I'm not at liberties to discuss the Arena at all. It's confidential and I wouldn't want to ruin it for the viewers. I can however say that I have been working alongside the finest scientist to ensure that everything is of undeniable quality and will enrich the viewing experience for all._

 _ **Corrine then requested a few moments to take a call, afterwards she said she would need to head to the laboratories for some last minute checks and such. She used a lot of scientific terminology, but she has agreed to answer three more questions.**_

 _ **So how will the tributes be selected? And have we, as the Capitol, taken any precautions to ensure that everyone in the designated demographic is available for selection? And how do you intend to stop identity theft?**_

 _It is a very simple process. Using the latest census and the post-war registry: A list of names has been compiled and there will be numerous Peacekeepers going to take a blood sample and imputing it with the corresponding name to a database I've developed. As for the selection, or 'Reaping' as the President has taken to calling it, is a very simple process: All the names of the male tributes in one bowl, the females in another: The D.L.O (District Liaison Officer) will choose the names from the bowls._

 _ **It truly is simple. So my final question: President DeMontford made numerous allusions to the Capitol's involvement in the Hunger Games. Could you elaborate?**_

 _Yes, the Capitol will be able to sponsor tributes who they feel would make suitable Victors. It is as simple as that, that is why Garrick decided to have the tributes participate in a Parade, have their skills judged and show their character via interview. Any more information from that aspect of the Games will be addressed in a press release closer to the time._

 _Corrine then excused herself, and the interview came to an end. Capitol, keep your eyes open for the expected press releases. And remember: Happy Hunger Games, and May the Odds be ever in your favour._

* * *

 **So, it took a while but here it is. I don't know how I feel about this chapter, I feel like there are a lot of unanswered questions: But that is why this story has multiple POV's… They will all be answered in time. I mean every tribute is guaranteed two POV's before the Bloodbath begins.**

 **Another friendly reminder, if you've reserved a tribute. Try to get it to me as soon as possible… I haven't had replies from some of the people as of yet, but I'll hold onto their reservations for a little while longer. It's only so I can plan where they will have their POV's/**

 **This chapters question comes in two parts: If you could sponsor your tribute one item, what would it be?**

 **If your tribute died, what would be written on their headstone?**

 ****And big than yous to the readers who submitted these tributes.**

 **Fletcher Kane is the mind child of JadeRavenstone**

 **Quinn Lectra was brought to life by Mystical Pine Forest**

 **Next chapter we will be meeting: Malva, Olivia and Ari...Maybe a little something more. I haven't decided yet.**

 **Here's an updated version of the tribute list.**

 **District One**

 **M: Saphir DeNoire, 18**

 **F: RESERVED**

 **District Two**

 **M:**

 **F: Malva Kaestner, 16**

 **District Three**

 **M: Fletcher Kane, 16**

 **3: Didgit Slatter, 18**

 **District Four**

 **M: Ari Grey, 18**

 **F: Remi Scarr, 17**

 **District Five:**

 **M: Edison Foster, 12**

 **F: Quinn Lectra, 13**

 **District Six:**

 **M: RESERVED**

 **F: RESERVED**

 **District Seven**

 **M: RESERVED**

 **F: Catherine 'Cat' Forbes, 15**

 **District Eight**

 **M: Patrick Weaver, 18**

 **F: Issy Jansingh, 17**

 **District Nine:**

 **M: Faron Jennings, 13**

 **F: Millet Rye, 18**

 **District Ten**

 **M: Elek Cordova, 15**

 **F: Dai Ronilker, 16**

 **District Eleven**

 **M: Weller Worthen, 12**

 **F: Olivia Bittercress, 18**

 **District Twelve**

 **M: Maxxie Benthoven Bent, 14**

 **F: RESERVED**

 **Thanks**

 **-Nellie xx**


	5. Chapter 3

**This chapter is shorter than anticipated, it was meant to include two other tributes. But I feel a little behind on my writing schedule. And I hate leaving it too long without an update, but thankfully I have just over a third of the next chapter (a very long chapter coincidentally) completed. It should be with you either Thursday or the coming Monday.**

 **As for the previous chapters question: I can't answer it but, it is nice to know what you'd like your tributes to receive.**

 **So here are two tributes, I can't wait to see what you think. Malva was fun to write… Ari, while fun, was a tad more difficult.**

 **Malva comes courtesy of ASimpleMind94**

 **Ari comes courtesy of Tyler5595**

* * *

 **Malva Kaestner, 16, District Two.**

"First of all, I'm going to need you to take a step back before my rape whistle blows itself… And before you try and spin a web of bullshit, tell me what the fuck is wrong."

Rodriguez recoils at my tone, surprising really. You would think that after knowing me for so long, he would be all but immune to the fact that I'm a bitch. I would pat myself on the shoulder, but I hardly have time to indulge in self-congratulations when my supposed 'Boss' is obviously in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Men: Can't live with them. Period.

"Well Malv, you're the best I've got. Best I've ever had, and I am eternally…and I mean 'eternally' grateful that you've helped with the business…"

What the fuck? If he's trying to fire me or something, I will literally rip his head from his shoulders and shit down his neck. And he knows it. The addition of the petrified expression on his face means that he's finally caught up on the whole 'Malva is going to kill me' aspect of this scenario. He throws his hands up as if to beg for mercy. I would scoff at his cowardice but it is hardly surprising. Holding up my hand, his pitiful blubbering ceases instantly and I level him with a glare that has made many grown men cry. Including Rodriguez himself, and on more than one occasion.

"Roddie, shut up. You're not going to fire me, because if you did: I would ruin your life. No buts, no 'maybe' about it: I would take everything you find precious in this shithole world and destroy it. Beyond repair, annihilated…"

"No, as if I'd fire you. Without you the business would go under and then I don't know what would happen…"

"First off, I didn't ask for you to speak. So, if you're not going to attempt to fire me: Why am I stuck in here with you, when I could be out there making money?"

I gesture half-heartedly at the door that leads to the bar, but the gesture is not as poignant when you're unable to hear the rhythmic thud of music. Damn soundproofed doors. Roddie opens his mouth and closes it a few times, his resemble to a fish out of water becoming more apparent every second. I nod my head patronizingly as if to prompt him to speak, and roll my eyes as I see his pale skin become tinged with a greenish hue.

"I'vehiredAntnoiabecausesheneedsajobandI'mgoigntoneedyoutoshowhertheropes. Please, don't kill me."

Huh? I just stare at him, eyes scrunched shut as if waiting for me to smite him like a vengeful God. And from the very little I could get from his bout of verbal vomit, I don't think I'm going to the direction this conversation is heading in. I ask for one day where Rodriguez and his dick don't cause me any problems, and you don't need to be a genius to connect the dots and realise: Today is not that day.

"Rodriguez, why would I kill you? You're my little puppet, running the business and putting coin in my pocket. Unless you're trying to tell me that you're actively trying to sabotage the business. Then I might kill you, and since I heard the word 'Antonia' in your spiel. Well, you sabotaging 'our' business sounds pretty likely."

Horrified, or maybe confounded. I couldn't put my finger on the emotion that would cause someone to twist their face up like Rod right now; but whatever it is, it's not pretty. I simply sit on the desk, a feral grin uncurling on my plump lips: I can see the beads of sweat falling from his hairline. I would sympathise, but I find it far too entertaining to watch someone that most people label as a 'Gangster' fall apart like the little bitch he is.

"Malva, we go way back and I'd never fuck you over. Never, it's just Antonia come to me and she needs a job. Really needs a job, and she made a very compelling case: She could be useful, I mean she's got a look that some of the boys would appreciate. It's nothing more than a business transaction: I just need you to give her a few pointers, show her the way."

Rodriguez falls to his knees, before crawling over and throwing his arms around my legs. Men are nothing more than overgrown children, and I've never been fond of children: But there are two types of people in the world, those like Rod and I, and then the arseholes. And anyone not categorized as an 'arsehole' has to stick together, and therefore it is my duty to sort this shit out.

"Blonde bimbo Antonia? The skank who is nothing more than a walking pile of peroxide and Daddy issues. Well done Rod, you've managed to get your dick sucked by the dumbest bitch in the whole District. I mean how could you be sexually deprived that you'd fuck her or whatever went down? I don't need to know. There's a different girl in your bed every night, sometimes more than one."

I don't know how, and I don't care but while I was ranting Antonia 'Bimbo' Zaylin had appeared. Rodriguez looked torn, his arm thrown around the whore's shoulders: He couldn't decide whether to run and hide from whatever I could do next, or try and confront me to try and protect his masculine image. And here I was thinking the concept of male ego had died in his case. Antonia on the other hand was distraught, I would usually be a little proud that my words had moved someone to tears: But she was an ugly crier, and the nasal quality was slowly grating on my nerves.

"C'mon sis, you know—"

"Rodriguez, this is business. And we're business partners, biological relations come second to that fact: So hang your violin up. Plus, if you're going to try the 'sibling' card, let me ask you a quick question: What kind of big brother would let his sister work in some underground strip joint, letting greasy old men paw at her? I'll answer that for you: Not a good one."

Rodriguez's eyes drop the floor, thoroughly abashed and ashamed, and for a nanosecond I regret what I said. He had tried to keep me away from the business, but operating alone he was as useful as a chocolate fireguard: So I stepped in, and it snowballed from there. I was the Latina spitfire the patrons wanted to see, and we wanted the money: The answer was obvious. Antonia grips his hand tight and turns to me, her hazel eyes brimming with unshed tears, I can already imagine the begging she's about to come out with and while it will embarrass her and entertain me: I don't like the smell of burnt plastic and desperation.

"But that shit is beside the point. Antonia what I am about to tell you is law: And if you break the law here, the punishment is far worse than anything the 'Peacekeepers' can even dream of. Do you understand me?"

Simply nodding her head Antonia turned to Rod, who seems to have regained his composure, as if seeking some kind of reassurance. But his expression is as hard as my own, he may think with his dick more often than not but he knows how the business works. I raise my eyebrow, a silent enquiry as to whether everything is alright between us: He nods his heads before giving me a slight smile.

"Yes, yes I do."

"Good, but I need to say something. I'm not going to lie to protect your feeling, for two reasons: One, I'm a complete bitch who couldn't give a flying fuck about your feelings. And secondly, I derive some sense of sadistic pleasure from being the one pissing on your parade. The Kaestner Network is far reaching and we have our hands in a lot of different pies: But no one ever gets to taste more than one pie. And our 'restaurant' is more of a 'attend only if invited' affair. You got that?"

I gave Antonia a few moments for it to sink in, the analogy was a little crude but it would suffice for Antonia. Expecting this girl to read 'subtext' is the equivalent of a fish growing legs and simultaneously dancing the samba while singing opera: Fucking impossible. Rodriguez is biting his lip to prevent himself from laughing at her clueless expression, but gives her arm a reassuring squeeze anyway: He's always had a soft spot for idiots.

"I thought this was a strip joint, you know: Dancing for money, giving people extra favours…"

"No. This is a bar, where young beautiful will dance for men who can afford it. There is no prostitution happening here, ever: And if you're found sucking some rich man's dick, you're done. Also, remember that nobody gets a discount or can convince you to break the 'no sex at work' policy: Or else I will castrate you. Yeah, women can get castrated too. And it hurts."

Antonia and Rodriguez both pale considerably at my words, I simply shrug my shoulders. We have our hookers, but they don't work in the bar. We have our drug dealers; they don't come into the bar: I won't put all my eggs in one basket, and I won't let some dumb bitch fuck up a system that is tried and tested. I have no intentions of ever becoming the living, breathing sex doll of some depraved bastard. Sensing the conversation's imminent end, I clap my hands together and force a cheerfully sarcastic smile onto my face.

"Good, now let's get to work. Rod, you're on bar tonight right? Don't even answer, because you are now: Antonia. Or 'Angelique' as the patrons are about to know you as. You stick with Roddie, he can fill you in on how shit goes down…and as for me, Antonia, watch and learn how to make money. Now piss off, I've got to get ready."

Antonia looks relieved as she practically runs for the door. I genuinely smile at how much she fears me, and I give her as friendly of a wave that I can muster for someone whose mere existence pisses me off. Rodriguez tries to sneak away but freezes when I clear my throat, turning to me with his renowned 'charm the pants off of any woman smile': Unfortunately we share blood, so it doesn't work. I flip him the bird as he closes the door, the bastard owes me big time but for now it is onto more important matters: Red or black lingerie for tonight? Because Malva wants to be raking in the money.

* * *

 **Ari Grey, 18, District Four.**

 _Trees are flying through my peripheral vision, rays of sunlight flickering through the thick forage. Twigs snapping as I run through the under bush… I can hear the symphony of screams. Death, the masked male from another District: Haunting my steps, he is coming. The end is inevitable. Fight or flight. The scene blurs as I feel my heart racing manically: Will I escape? Bodies of children buried upon one another, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition… I count the bodies: 22._

 _The assailant who has haunted me throughout the games, steps into the clearing: Heading towards me at breakneck speed and before I can even move their blade slashes at my throat. My wordless please become garbled as my own blood begins to drown me. The scene fades, laid before me is a body I never wanted to see this way: 12 years old, her blond hair glowing in the fading sun like a halo: Her almond shaped eyes closed, concealing the sky blue irises full of warmth and childlike wonder I am so accustomed too. A serene smile on her lips, contrasting with the scene of devastation I look upon. Why? No. No._

" _Dorel? Baby, it's me…Ari, please wake up. Please. PLEASE"_

 _Back and forth, I sit there rocking as the final moments of daylight fade into twilight. Tears continue to fall; I hold her hand as the rigor mortis sets in. My voice hoarse from my continuous begging for her to wake up. To smile up at me and tell me that none of this is real. Please, No, Please, No. The mantra continues to run circles in my mind… Time ceases to exist as a figure steps out from the shadows of the treeline._

 _The mask still firmly in place, the one who killed Dorel: Rage, should be flooding through my system. But it's not: Numbness. Every emotion I had ever felt seems to have dissipated in the winds of my grief. He begins to walk towards me, his blood-stained blade glistening in the dying rays of sunlight: He stands before me, stance relaxed and I know that death looks upon me. The executioner has arrived…He lifts his hand to remove the mask. His mousey brown hair falls across his forehead, sapphire blue eyes devoid of all emotion: The pointed chin, sharp cheekbones and thin lips. NO. NO. NO_

"NO"

That wasn't real. That wasn't real. My heart is hammering against my ribcage, my whole body shaking as if I had walked along the shoreline during a monsoon: I grasp at my bedside table, reaching for a glass of water. The liquid does very little to soothe the ache in my throat. In and out, in and out. It wasn't real, it can't have been real. I am Ari Grey nee Castillo, husband of Kai Grey and older brother-cum-parent to Dorel Grey nee Castillo: I work down at the 'Fisher Lounge' as a sous chef. I am not a murderer.

"Ari, what's up?"

If it wouldn't make me look like a fool, I would've burst into tears. Instead I just opened my arms and allowed my sister to jump into them, pulling her close I could feel her breathe against my neck and smell the combination of lavender and sea breeze: A scent that is quintessentially Dorel. The affirmation that my sister is alive can only do so much to ease the nagging worry that has been gnawing at my consciousness since the President announced these 'Hunger Games'. But it isn't my place to burden my sister with the anxieties that seem to haunt my every waking, and evidently sleeping, moment.

"Nothing. Nothing. I had a dream that Kai had been cooking and had somehow managed to burn the house down. And I thought it was real, I mean: Who would blame me? That man is an awful cook."

I can't seem to shut up, but my rambling seems to have appeased Dorel. She is probably reminiscing the countless disasters the household has faced whenever my husband attempts to impress us with his non-existent culinary skills. Dorel giggles before looking up at me, her sky blue eyes twinkle with humour and I can't suppress the genuine smile lighting up my face. I drop back down onto my bed, the anxiety seeming to have faded for now and simply listen while my sister regales me with tales from school.

"And what's going on here? Where was my invite to this duvet day?"

I grin as Dorel scurries under the duvet, and Kai places his hand against his chest in mock hurt. As inappropriate it may sound, with my younger sister being present, I can't help but thank my lucky stars that I'd somehow managed to marry the most eligible bachelor of District Four: The women, my friend Ocea included, literally fell at his feet. But it turns out that all he wanted was a socially awkward worrier who was the sole guardian of his younger sister. I chuckle under my breath when I realise that my life seems to sound like a poorly written romance novel.

"Well Kai, this is a special duvet day. And you're not invited."

Dorel nods along in agreement, giggling as Kai wipes away an imaginary tear and turns towards the door with a sad expression adorning his handsome features. Taking slow, deliberate steps and mumbling to himself about evil husbands and abandonment. Dorel turns to look at me with an expectant expression with her eyebrows raised, and for a second I remember an identical expression on my mother's face as she admonished me for one reason or another.

A sigh of defeat escapes my lips and before I can even open my mouth, Kai has jumped on my bed and begun to pepper my face with kisses: Something that Dorel seems to find highly amusing. I try in vain to push Kai away, but a scrawny chef is no match for a muscular fishermen: He manages to straddle me and lean down, his hot breath tickling my ear.

"Well, well Mr. Grey: I never thought I'd see the day that you'd kick me out of bed. Especially after last night, I'm sure that I was pretty 'special' last night when…"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence, sinking my teeth into his shoulder he backs away before groaning in pain. Before he can even open his mouth, I widen my eyes in the universal sign to 'shut up' and incline my head towards Dorel who is watching the scene unfold with ignorant fascination. Kai looks suitably rebuked for a second before his face transforms into his trademark cheeky grin.

"Hey Do Do, I spoke to Mrs Fischer and she said she'd be happy to have you over to play with Coral. If Ari agrees that is"

I cannot believe this man; he can't go around arranging such things without informing me. Never mind the fact I'll have to find a suitable time to have Coral over, and to top everything off I'd much rather have Dorel in my immediate vicinity at all times: Since the Hunger Games had been announced, the Peacekeepers had been a little harsher on the Districts to ensure that we remained 'compliant'. Anything could happen; she could be shot or just abducted. Kai must have caught onto the direction of my thoughts as he pulls my hand into his before pressing a chaste kiss to my lips.

"And Mrs Fischer has already told me that she plans to stay indoors all day, she is just as if not more cautious than you Ari. There is nothing to worry about."

His words, while meant to be comforting, do very little to meet their intended purpose. Dorel is looking at me, her eyes silently begging for me to say 'yes' her lower lip trembling: I narrow my eyes at Kai. Many may think that the fishermen are the strong, unintelligent type. If only that were the case with the loveable oaf that I married, instead I got a master of manipulation who has me wrapped around his little thing: Combine that with Dorel's incredible talent for making me cater to her every whim and I am simply screwed. Plus, I hate being the bad guy.

"Fine, I'll drop you over once I'm ready. Now go and get washed and changed, and wait for me to do your breakfast."

The saddening thing is that while Dorel resembles Mom, I actually sound like her nowadays. Soon enough I'll be berating Kai and Dorel with one hand planted firmly on my hip, and the other wielding a rolling pin like a deadly weapon: Before I'm swept away making a variety comparisons between my late mother and I, I simply turn to Kai. He holds his hands up in surrender, already knowing I want an explanation for whatever that was.

"Okay, okay. Dorel is going stir crazy, she loves us but she doesn't want us breathing down her neck constantly. I love you, Ari so I have to tell you the truth: You're suffocating her. You're taking the 'overprotective' thing a little too far, and what would you do if she started resenting you for it?"

I grit my teeth, while whatever he is saying is logical: It doesn't mean it is right. I'm being a good 'parent', the Capitol have basically mandated that 23 children are dying this year: I doubt Dorel would 'resent' me for trying to reduce all other areas of risk. She'd probably appreciate it. Suffocating her? Kai just stares at me with sympathy shining in his olive orbs. And that's when I know he is right, but how do you explain an irrational fear that your sister/daughter might die at any moment.

"I understand Kai, I'm just concerned. This Hunger Games thing, the Peacekeepers… Anything could happen, and I just want to make sure nothing does. But I suppose I can't wrap her up in cotton wool…"

Kai pulls me into his arms when my words fail me, I don't know how but he seems to always know what I want to say. I press my lips against his cheek, trying to convey my thinks with the small gesture: Kai, as always, tries to take it a step further by pressing his lips against my own. His tongue travels along my bottom lip, asking for entrance: Smiling against his mouth I indulge him. We may be in a situation where we're caring for a 12 year old, but we're still two young men who are slaves to our dreaded hormones.

"Come on Ari, I'm ready."

I jump away from Kai as if I'd been struck by lightning, I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and I do not doubt for one second that I'm seconds away from resembling a tomato. I keep my back towards Dorel as I hastily pull on clothes; Kai on the other hand finds the whole thing hilarious, especially when he catches sight of a 'little problem' of mine. I narrow my eyes at him, but he simply winks and pointedly stares at my crotch.

"Sorry Do, I'm coming now. Kai, make sure I have a cup of coffee ready for when I'm back. We have a lot to discuss."

Kai nods his head, although I know his mind is probably hanging around in a gutter somewhere. Whenever Dorel is out of the house, he is like a dog in heat but today that won't be happening. He might think a lasses faire approach and living in the moment, but I'm much more of a forward thinker: And I have a lot of things to look forward and plan accordingly to.

"I'm sure we can discuss it all day long."

Don't worry Kai; we'll be discussing it all day and all night long: The first topic of discussion is the Hunger Games, and how we're going to avoid them. No matter what. As anxious as I may be, Ari Grey is the man with a plan.

* * *

 **Sorry again for the shortness of the chapter, it is something that annoys me as much as you since it seems the plot is progressing at a snail's pace: But I do know the direction where we're going… It's just that I'm struggling to plan where people are going without all the tributes. If you've submitted: I can message you what kind of 'introduction' your character is getting (Reaping, Goodbye etc.) But rest assured that all tributes will have a POV before they complete the Tribute Parade, and at least two POV's before the Games themselves.**

 **Leave a review, and this is not a question per say but a minor curiosity:**

 **If you had to pick three tributes from the list, solely on their name, who would it be?**

 **Here's the tribute list:**

 **District One**

 **M: Saphir DeNoire, 18**

 **F: Rose Francesca Pepperhill, 18**

 **District Two**

 **M: Jacob Richardson, 18**

 **F: Malva Kaestner, 16**

 **District Three**

 **M: Fletcher Kane, 16**

 **3: Didgit Slatter, 18**

 **District Four**

 **M: Ari Grey, 18**

 **F: Remi Scarr, 17**

 **District Five:**

 **M: Edison Foster, 12**

 **F: Quinn Lectra, 13**

 **District Six:**

 **M: Abraham 'Abby' Cooper, 14**

 **F: Amara Sinclair, 16**

 **District Seven**

 **M: Asher Wilde, 17**

 **F: Catherine 'Cat' Forbes, 15**

 **District Eight**

 **M: Patrick Weaver, 18**

 **F: Issy Jansingh, 17**

 **District Nine:**

 **M: Faron Jennings, 13**

 **F: Millet Rye, 18**

 **District Ten**

 **M: Elek Cordova, 15**

 **F: Dai Ronilker, 16**

 **District Eleven**

 **M: Weller Worthen, 12**

 **F: Olivia Bittercress, 18**

 **District Twelve**

 **M: Maxxie Benthoven Bent, 14**

 **F: Zana Einsburg, 15**


	6. Chapter 4

**Hey, it's Nellie and I am here with another update.**

 **I was going to have 6 POV's for this chapter. But I suck, badly, and couldn't get them finished on time. I have however gotten partway through the next chapter (Update due Thursday) which will include the 2 POV's I would've included in this chapter and a Capitol POV (Back to Corrine).**

 **Now here are this chapters Tributes and their Creators:**

 **Issy was submitted by the wonderful FlawlessCatastrophe.**

 **Dai was submitted by the amazing grimbutnotalways**

 **Edison was submitted by the breath taking Music Rules The World**

 **Jake was submitted by the mesmerising AgentWriter**

* * *

 **Issy Jansingh, 17, District Eight.**

Whistling to myself I head up to the workroom, my hips swaying with a rhythm that exists solely in my head. I just know, although I've never made a claim to be psychic that today is going to be a good day. Business has been pretty steady most of the morning, and Gordon Hurwitz had walked past the boutique on multiple occasions.

Seven to be exact, I counted. With his golden hair shining in the sunlight like a halo, we actually made eye contact and well: There was a connection, but that's beside the point. I am working, and working does not involve being distracted by boys: However handsome they may be.

"Hello sister dearest, I am here to help you in your quest to create mesmerising couture"

Throwing the workroom door open, I throw my arms wide as I jump through the doorway. I may have looked a little deranged or full blown psychotic: But Issy Jansingh, certainly knows how to make an entrance. Unfortunately, it seems that workaholic twin sisters don't appreciate that: Instead they just stare blankly at you as if you strolled on in and rained all over their parade.

The thing is we're a cliché, we may be identical with our copper coloured hair and amber coloured eyes: But we're definitely very different people, with the whole yin and yang business too. But today is going to be a good day, which means we need a whole lot more of my yin and a whole lot less of her yang.

"Right Amara, we're going to try this again. I'm going to go out of the room for a second, so you can stop looking at me like I've drown a litter of new-born puppies: We're going for smiles and all things bright and beautiful. And when I come back in you're not going to look like a sombre Sally."

I gesture to the broad smile on my face, as if to say 'this is how you do it. Trust me, it's not that hard' before turning and closing the door behind me. I wait a few moments, thinking about what I wanted for lunch before strolling back into the work room. And I was thinking about that bowl of soup for quite a while.

Instantly, it's very clear that Amara didn't get the memo regarding 'Operation: Put a Smile on Your Face', instead I find her hunched over the sewing machine with a very prominent frown on her face. My own smile doesn't fade, but I place my hands on my hips and clear my throat in a flawless impression of our mother.

I'd expected her to laugh, or react in any other way than looking at me like I've started speaking fluent gibberish. Apathy and disinterest are foreign to me, but obviously not to the person I shared a womb with for 9 months.

"Mar Mar, do you seriously have to be a spirit hoser? Your hosing my spirit down…and all this negativity is giving me the beginnings of a migraine. And I can't deal with you being a moody bint, today is going to be a good day and I will not have you ruining it: So I'm going to send you some positive energy and you're going to put a smile on your face. Comprende?"

I place my fingers against my temple and concentrate on a number of positive things: How I'd been selected to compete in the gymnastic competition next week, how Lucille Hemmingway had gained a tonne of weight and now resembled a three tier cake in her leotard. But nothing, Amara just stares blankly at me: Eyes wide at what she, not so fondly, refers to as my 'blind optimism'.

"Is, how can you be so optimistic at a time like this?"

I sigh and stroll over to my own workstation, as the spirit hoser just stares at me with a quirked eyebrow. I hear her repeat her question, but pointedly ignore her: I thread the cotton through the needle of my own sewing machine. Chancing a backwards glance, I can see her sat there her eyes silently reproaching me for the fact that I don't like to think about every little bad thing in the world. That would make me depressed, and depression leads to premature wrinkles. Something that if I've not told Amara once, I've told her a thousand times.

"Because, sister dearest. Today is going to be a good day, and all this negativity is ruining my good day, right? Plus, negativity isn't going to get anything done, while focussing on positive things help us move forward. Plus, I don't think depression would be a good luck on me. Do you?"

Cue exasperated sigh in three, two, one: There it is. The quiet thrum from her machine has ceased and I know how it's about to go down: She's going to lecture me on becoming more aware of the 'bad things' happening throughout Panem. And I'll remind her, yet again, that I'm more than aware that life isn't sunshine and rainbows: But brooding on it isn't going to solve the world's problems. It'll be a stalemate and she'll sit there muttering to herself about immaturity and every other one of my supposed 'character flaws'.

"Issy, seriously tomorrow is the Reaping for the Hunger Games. Do you know what that means?"

I just take a deep breath before turning to look at my sister and something in my expression must make her pause. I am well aware of the Hunger Games, and I know that it isn't some weird Capitol weight loss programme. But I refuse to sit around, depressed, over the minute possibility that I'll be forced to take part. Amara opens her mouth to before she can continue lecturing me, like she's my bloody mother rather than my sister; I raise my hand to shut her up.

"When the hand goes up, your mouth goes shut…Right, you're obviously going to stay stuck in this pissy mood of yours that I have no time for. So rather than badgering me, you get to your work and contemplate the Apocalypse while I sit here and have a silent party inside my head. Okay?"

Amara just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to her sewing and the morbid thoughts running amok in her head. While I pull some samples of material over to me and leaf through them, imagining the sequins catching the light while I perform my newly choreographed floor routine. I imagine the forest green against my creamy complexion and it's like a light bulb has gone off inside my head: Pulling my sketchbook from under my work station, and I'm off. I did come here to do some work after all, and it is a clothing boutique: So designing a custom leotard for myself counts as work.

* * *

Humming a familiar melody to myself while finish off what could be my thousandth design, I hear the familiar jingle of the wind chime. It seems like we have a customer, looking over at Amara I can see her brow furrowed in concentration as she works on some intricate pleating for a custom design that is to be sent to the Capitol. I stand up to leave, and consider apologising to my sister: Even if I haven't done anything wrong, it feels unnatural for us to not be speaking. But if I disturb her now, she'll probably crucify me.

"So I'm just going to go and sort out whoever that is."

I don't wait for a reply before breezing out of the room just in case of the potential crucifying, but as I reach the stairs I hear a grunt of acknowledgment: In Amara land that is pretty much an apology. So with an extra spring to my step I run down the stairs and onto the shop floor before skidding to a halt. I hear sirens in my head and hide behind a pile of clothes. Boy alert, glimpsing over the rail I almost squeal: Cute boy alert.

Before I can even think of introducing myself I need to make sure that I don't look like crap: I could have chalk on my face or something. My hair probably looks like a birds nest, as quietly as possible I sneak over to the mirrors near the changing room and almost sigh in relief: My hair is still pulled back into a relatively tidy ponytail, and my face doesn't resemble an artist's easel which is always a bonus. Before heading over to the cute boy, I tug my dress down a little: A bit of cleavage never hurt anyone. Blowing myself a kiss, I turn around and my stomach drops: I swear today is meant to be a good day but someone seems intent on that not happening. Probably all of Amara's negative energy, this is some sort of twisted karmic bitch slap. Damn Amara.

A thief. The boy has literally just slipped a dress from the rack and right into his satchel. Cute boy enters shop, check. Cute boy looks a little lost and in need of some help from yours truly, check. Issy looks presentable enough to talk to cute boy, check. There was never a 'Cute boy steals from shop' on my checklist. Strolling over, with every intention of reprimanding him, I can't help but notice the snug fit of his trousers: It looks like a juicy peach wrapped in velvet. Delicious, and for one moment I kind of forget that he's stolen from the shop: I just ogle him. No snap out of it, Issy, snap out of it.

"Are you lost?"

My voice comes out freakishly breathy, and I'm pretty sure that I'm already an unpleasant scarlet colour. But it was getting a bit weird, with me staring and him just drifting around the store like a little lost boy. As soon as I speak, he turns to face me and I can't help but giggle: His brow eyes are wide and I finally understand what people mean when they say somebody looks like a deer caught in headlights. He chuckles to himself and catches his lower lip between his teeth. The seemingly innocent gesture however makes my mind take a quick vacation to the gutter.

"No,No…I'm just browsing."

He gestures to the racks full of clothing in lieu of explanation, and I almost cringe that I've been 'browsing' too: The merchandise he has to offer. I stand up a bit taller, and try to imagine anything other than what he'd look like without a shirt. I mean he stole from my shop for Panem's sake, and like a light switch I cling to my newfound moral high ground.

"Wow. I mustn't have been shopping as much I thought I had lately, since I never thought browsing was a euphemism for stealing things you didn't pay for. Silly me."

As soon as I finish speaking, the effect is instantaneous: His lips fall into a perfect O, and his already pale skin somehow becomes more insipid. His lips begin to move, as though he is trying to think of something to say: Will he deny it? Could he be a deranged killer? Oh no, not the direction I want my thoughts going in. I raise an eyebrow at his flustered appearance, and he runs his hand through his curly hair. I could imagine running my hands through his ebony curls. Actually no, I don't date people who steal from my shop or run my fingers through their hair: That's bad for business.

"You saw that did you?"

He seems almost apologetic, and a tad embarrassed. Well at least I can assume he isn't going to attack me like some kind of psychopath, and I release a breath I wasn't aware I'd be been holding in: His lips curly into a cheeky grin, and I can feel my expression change to mirror his. I just nod my head before gesturing to the satchel thrown over his shoulder.

"I did, you weren't exactly subtle. But if I may: If you're into the cross dressing thing. I think what you've picked up might be a tad too small."

I chuckle as he appears to relax momentarily, but his cheeks become stained with a vivid pink when he realises that I implied he was getting a dress for himself. He splutters a little and I'm struck senseless for a moment, he might even be more attractive than Gordon and that's saying something. My own cheeks redden significantly from that little epiphany, while my ovaries seem to be performing a gymnastic routine of their own.

"No, no…I was just getting my little sister something to wear for the Reaping tomorrow…She's a bit scared and I thought a new dress might help…"

He looks down to the floor, and then I'm done: The reverence in his voice when he was talking about his little sister. If I wasn't petrified of looking like an idiot I would cry: I've always been a sucker for boys who aren't afraid of their emotions. In a lame attempt to try and brighten the mood a little I pat him on the shoulder: He looks up to me, with a nervous sparkle in his eyes.

"But what about you? Are you here to pick up something to wear at the Reaping?"

What is it with people and this Reaping? First Amara, and her crappy mood. And now the lost boy is rambling on about it: I'm expecting a thunderstorm to hit in a minute. A bit of pathetic fallacy to set the mood for these Hunger Games. Instead I shake my head, as soon as I realised that the Reaping thing was going to be televised I made sure I had an outfit planned and another on standby. Just in case of emergency, or not really enjoying the idea of wearing periwinkle blue that day.

"Not exactly…since my parents own the place. I can just take what I want."

I don't know what I've said but his eyes widen and he begins to look around, and then it hits me: He thinks I'm going to call the Peacekeepers or something. I just shake my head before reaching out to grab his wrist, before I can even get a word out he's pulled his hand from mine and ran from the door and within seconds he has disappeared into the hustle and bustle of District Eight. I can't help but feel a little deflated; I was going to offer him my services as a personal shopper and then maybe heavily hint that he could thank me by taking me out somewhere. Today was meant to be a good day: And while it hasn't sucked completely. I mean, I did meet my little lost boy but I didn't even get his name.

But I will, Issy Jansingh is going to find out that boy's name one way or another: Even if it kills me. Actually I should phrase that differently due to the current political climate: Even if it takes a while but causes no significant damage. That's better. With my smile firmly back in place I lock the shop door and head back up to the work room.

* * *

 **Dai Ronilker, 16, District Ten.**

"I'll be entering the Hunger Games…"

It was a powerful statement to make. The rational part of anyone's mind would scream at them, screams that the Hunger Games are abhorrent. They are an injustice, a plague that will fester in the Districts. Until there is a hero, one seemingly unimportant person, who steps up to embrace their destiny: I am that person. The protagonist of this story and tomorrow marks the beginning of the proverbial 'quest' I must undergo as the lead character.

Every story requires their hero to overcome the odds, and face great tragedy, before they're given the typical 'Happily Ever After'. That's all it is, a plot device: Everything here is simply a way of driving the plot forward. Of me being able to broadcast to the world what I have known all along: None of this is real. I live between the musty pages of a book, I am your imagination. I am their imagination: They're always trying to 'medicate' me. But I am enlightened: They're trying to take away my understanding of the world. They're trying to ensure that my story remains forever unwritten.

"Dai, there is no way to guarantee your name will be picked in the lottery. Are you paranoid about the games? Do you feel…"

I cover my ears and close my eyes. Rocking back and forth, back and forth: The repetitive motion soothes me. It opens my mind to beyond any of their understanding. Their words are mental lances, made to penetrate my mind and turn me into a mindless sycophant: They call her a therapist while she sits there with her neutral expression and pen poised against her notepad. She's not a therapist though, she's not even here. She's a hallucination; they're probably trying to poison my mind with an odourless gas. They're not real, their purpose is to prevent me living my truth: My story. My revelations.

Opening my eyes, it is watching. They are watching, all eyes are on me. The walls have eyes; they're the third person narrative. Omniscient, immobile and watching as the action unfolds. The 'therapist', or writer's block, as I have come to see her as: She crosses her legs, eyes remaining fixed on me. Her very presence is meant to unnerve me, to deter my pursuit of my truth: But it won't. I continue to rock back and forth as her hand flies across the page of her notepad.

"Dai, it is evident that your condition is deteriorating. And yet you are refusing to take the medication offered to you, why is this?"

I shake my head, a mirthless laugh bursting from my lips. Back and forth, back and forth. Could they be any more obvious? Trying to weedle inside my head, make me believe what they believe. But I know the truth, I am the truth: My name is Dai Ronilker. This is my story, not their story. Mine. But they want me to think I'm crazy. But I'm not. I never have been, back and forth. They're trying to trap me, to hold me hostage in a universe where I am the central character. They're trying to force me to become an unfinished manuscript. But they can't: Everything they do. Everything that happens to and around me, only driving the plot forward.

"Only driving the plot forward. Only driving the plot forward. I don't need this 'medication'. And you know I don't, don't you? You do. She does, they all do. All watching me, and you know that I'm not crazy. I'm more aware, you. Them. Plot holes. Plot holes. You're nothing but a plot hole. I can see it, I see it all: You know I do."

Giggling I stare to the wall. The white, unblemished wall. An empty page, waiting to be stained with the ink of my experiences. They're trying to label me as crazy, and put me on the bookshelf. But they can't, it's inevitable. Back and forth. he's staring now, they're all staring. I am poetry, I am verse. I am the words that slip from their tongues. Life is the word written on the paper of your minds. Of my mind, their minds. Life is poetry, life is verse. My life is poetry, but not verse: Verse. Words. Truth. Lies. Laughter slips from my mouth, manic: Reverberating. Re-verber-ating. Their crazy truth, their written lies.

"Miss Ronilker, nobody is looking to label you in any way. You are not crazy, but medication is there to enable you to re-integrate with society and live as 'normal' of a life as possible: We're not here to be your enemy, and we are not here to do anything but help you. I will not lie, you are ill. And your condition is slowly worsening…"

Lies. Lies. All lies. No truth, fallacy. Fallacy. They are fallacy: Head is going. Going where. Back and forth. Anger, rage: Death. Destruction. It is coming. They call it paranoia. Awareness. Only awareness. They can't take that from me. Can't. Won't. Shan't. Please: A pool. Bottomless pool. One step, two step: Anger. Anger is the anchor. Sinking. Sinking.

"NO. NO. NO. LIAR."

Back and forth, back and forth. I'm not worsening, I'm crystallising. Butterflies, butterflies. I will fly away, unbound. She is pressing the button. They're coming: The men in white. Back and forth: The men in white are coming. But it is futile. They can't change me, they don't own me: They are mine. Mental roadblocks. My journey, my quest, my truth. They cannot take that away. They will not take, I will not give: It's not real. They're not real. I am. I am reality. I am fantasy, this is me. I am this. Placate them. Placate me. Insecurity is normality. They're getting worse, I am better: Never worse.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. Ever so sorry, sorry I am. Don't let the men in the white come. I can't sleep yet. I don't want to be condemned. Are you to condemn me? Mindless drones, mindless drones. I don't want to be a mindless drone. Ignorance, ignorance…"

Singing. Pleasant. My voice, their voice, your voice: Our voice. Singing, pleasant: Voices as one. One voice. I am the voice, the voice is me. They're here. White coats, white coats: Make sleep. Blackness. Gone. Gone girl, I am the gone girl. Gone where? Where have I gone? You gone? They gone? Gone? Writer's block signals for them to leave. Gone, where have they gone? Away from here.

"Tablets. Tablets. You want me to take. Tablets, tablets…It is me they will break. My story, it is my story… Medias res. The story begins in the middle of action. Tablets, tablets. Inaction. Inaction. Death. Ending. Beginnings: They're my premature ending. Shhh… It won't end. They won't let it: They are insight. They are interpretation. They're watching us. Watching me. Always watching. Always."

Reading. Absorbing. I am you, you are me. Writer's block, the 'Therapist': Neutral expression quivers and she places her notepad on the table. Never before, revelation. Staring at me, staring through me. Always watching, always reading. Absorbing. Knowledge. I am knowledge, she wants knowledge: I am her knowledge. I am the key. Dai Ronilker, key. Lock: Opening. Back and forth, back and forth.

"You are not a mindless drone Dai, you're seeing things differently to other people. This is not a matter we need to discuss further on this occasion. I'm aware that your family came to visit you recently, do you feel as though your situ—"

Screaming. I am screaming. Loud. Anger. Chest heaving. Lunge, attack. Goodbye Roadblock. Gone, gone. They've come: The men in white. Writer's block has evacuated the room. White wall watching. They grab me, hold me down. Holding me down. Butterfly fly away, I am unburdened. Calling for Diazepam, Haloperidol. . Screaming. I scream, you scream. All screaming. Hold me down, hold her down. Dangerous, I am danger. I am endangered. Danger. Holding me down. The syringes are coming. They're coming. Medication, normality: Manufactured ignorance. NO. Pink liquid, pink. Weightlessness. Tiring. No. Unfinished manuscript. Bookshelf. Premature ending. I am poetry, I am verse. Head hit floor, head hits floor: Beats. Hum. Hum. Hum.

"I am verse, I am truth, I am poetry, I am reality, I am…"

Head hits floor. Wine stains floor. Crimson. Scarlet. Red. Danger. Blood. My blood, your blood. Holding head. Head cannot hit the floor. Oblivion. Oblivion. Darkness has come. Sleep. The white coats, the men in white: Sing me to sleep. GONE.

* * *

 _I am Dai Roniker, the hero of this story. From humble beginnings, to victorious: Walk with me into this world. Before this world becomes oblivion. They called me freak, sniggered at me: How things change. They call me Victor, thunderous applause. Tomorrow I become a tribute, you will witness the first step of me embracing my destiny. Uncovering my truth… The moment is nigh upon us. I must seize the spotlight. And become the Hero I was born to be._

 _Chapter One ends._

* * *

 **Edison Foster, 12, District Five.**

Ever since the Hunger Games had been announced, I had been a ball of excitement: And today is the culmination of that excitement. I've always been enamoured with the Capitol: They're superior to the Districts in every way. Whether it is economically, technologically or culturally: The sights and sounds I've seen on the projector of the Capitol have drawn me in like a moth to a flame. I look at the Capitol, and I see belonging: I feel as though I can bask in the colourful glow of the Capitol. My one lifeline from drowning in the sea of monotony this District represents.

I don't fit in with my classmates: They lack things that have become an integral part of who I am. I am ambitious, I appreciate the finer things in life and I'm not scared of working to get them. My supposed 'peers' are more interested in childish 'playground' games and idle chit chat. I have no patience for such idiocy; I yearn for more than that: I will serve the Capitol. My District is grey, a fitting colour: Bland and without light. But the Capitol is so much more than that, a rainbow beacon of brilliance. And now, I will be able to bask in their radiance as they brighten up this toilet bowel of a District that I have the misfortune of calling 'home'.

Miss Flora Foreman, the designated District Liaison Officer, is due to arrive today. I've been waiting at the train station ever since my father informed me that the delegation would be arriving: It's something I've always dreamed of. To see a Capitolite with my own two eyes, and now there is a chance that I may even get to speak with her. It's simply overwhelming, and truthfully: It makes everything that my family and I have been enduring in recent months' worth it. My father fought valiantly in support of the Capitol, bombing a number of the hovels that the Rebels called 'bases' and made a number of high-profile arrests.

We have reaped the rewards from the Capitol, further wealth and such: Although my father says we would support the Capitol even if they didn't acknowledge our loyalty. For they represent everything that we, as a family, are trying to embody: They are refined, cultured and carry themselves with a quality that I can't even put into mere words. They're truly a step higher on the evolutionary chain. As if on cue, my eyes dart towards the dark tunnel that I know the train carrying Miss Foreman and her delegation will arrive.

A cursory glance at my bronze pocket watch tells me that I still have a while to wait, but I continue to shiver with anticipation. I can't help but ask myself a million questions: How will she speak? Will she have undergone anyone cosmetic enhancement modifications? If I weren't afraid of looking foolish, I would clap my hands together with childish glee.

"Well, what do we have here boys? Little Eddie, the traitor freak."

I cringe upon hearing the all too familiar drawl, Yaris Jute and the two lackeys who follow him like a bad odour. Thankfully I don't have the displeasure of knowing their names: I turn to face the boy who seems to spend every waking moment trying to intimidate or torment me in some way. He's never succeeded, maybe it's due to the fact that I can't fear him if I am too busy pitying him.

They're nothing more than miscreants, and I can't suppress my upper lip curling in distaste. All three of them seem to embody everything I think is wrong with this District: Their unwashed hair in various shades of blonde, the dull blue eyes and generally gaunt appearance. They look as if they're in severe need of a shower, and a hearty meal. Wearing those venomous expressions and those ghastly grey jump suits: These vile specimen are the worst ambassadors for the District. It is no wonder that the Capitol is so hasty to see us all as savages if this is what they've been forced to witness.

"Yaris, I don't have time to bicker with you. I'm actually waiting to greet Miss Flora Foreman from the train, so please make yourself scarce: I doubt that any of you would be considered a 'welcome sight' to any visitor to the District. Never mind a visitor from the Capitol itself."

My words are harsh, but they're true and I can't rescind them on that basis alone. But I doubt they were even listening: As soon as I open my mouth. Yaris begins to impersonate me, over pronouncing certain words and elaborately gesturing with his hands: His idiotic friends are quick to laugh. But they're simply jealous, that is the real reason they dislike me. My father has told me that more than once. While they live in squalor and struggle to complete menial academic tasks, I live a life of relative luxury and my father employs tutors to help me excel academically: I will join the Peacekeeper ranks as a field analyst. And as soon as I have the power to punish these loathsome creatures, they will regret the day they thought it would be a good idea to target Edison Foster.

"Wowwww… Eddie is waiting for the other freak. They're probably going to paint each other's nails and talk about Eddie being a traitorous little bastard. And the Capitol freak will probably…Be a freaking alien or something."

Blasphemy. I'm seething, they have no right to criticise me and they certainly have no right to criticise the Capitol. Without the Capitol, Panem would sink into anarchy and every good, hardworking man would be treated like a second class citizen while hellions like Yaris and his garish family would run amok. The simple disrespect has my blood boiling, it's as though their parents have raised them to have no manners and this just further emphasises the difference between me and their kind. I can feel anger swelling like a bubble in my stomach and I can't bite my tongue.

"Ah, I'm the freak? No, I am someone who has a chance of bettering myself. I am someone raised with simple manners, your parents must need parenting lessons. You're imbecilic, you're rude and if we're going to be brutally honest. Which I find myself inclined to do: You're not fit to shine my shoes, never mind a Capitolite's. So please, do us all a favour and just disappear: Look at you loitering on the streets like homeless ruffians and please do not get me started on those foul jump suits you wear: You'd be doing the District a favour if you were sent to the Hunger Games tomorrow."

It's true. Every little thing I said is true: They're nothing but vermin and if they were to die, I wouldn't class it as a loss at all. In fact, it would be more of a reward: Not having to tolerate their tiresome presences'. I just smile at them while they digest the thorough verbal beat down I had served them with. It only takes a second for them to realise what I'd said and my earlier confidence disappears: They're moving towards me and before they can even verbalise whatever physical torture they intend to inflict, I'm running as if my life depends on it. Which it very may well, I am dealing with Neanderthals after all.

* * *

I don't know how long I've been running, but my heart is beating viciously against my ribcage. While I may be fast, I definitely lack in the stamina department: I lean over and rest my hands against my knees while I try, and fail tremendously, to catch my breath. I send a silent prayer to the Capitol in thanks: If I hadn't pored over blueprints of District Five witch my father when he was organising raids throughout the District, then I wouldn't have been able to escape those three mongrels. And I think that if they would've caught me: It might have gotten unpleasant. Although my father would've made sure that they regretted it afterwards.

Standing upright I feel a little dizzy, but I soldier on down the narrow alleyway: Because however dizzy I may feel, the smell of the hovel I'm stood outside is far worse. Pulling my pocket watch from my blazer pocket, I can't help but give myself a round of applause: Even though three vagrants were chasing me I managed to lose them in less than fifteen minutes, father would be proud. Especially since I have more than enough time to get back to the train station before the train from the Capitol arrives.

Oh my Capitol, I can only imagine that running through the streets of District Five would've wreaked hell on my appearance. Pulling a compact mirror out I inspect my face and I'm glad to note that my vibrant purple eyeliner is still intact and my suit and tie, that father had imported from District Eight, look presentable: I can only imagine how awful it would be to greet a Capitol delegate without looking like the perfect 'little gentleman' I am expected to be. Thankfully, I'll never know.

Waking back through town, I am heartened to see my fellow Capitol supporters are also heading towards the station: I believe that Miss Foreman will truly appreciate having a welcoming committee who are devoted to the Capitol cause. I wave at a few of the families that I recognise, the Lectra's are suspiciously absent but I'd heard rumours of their son Sage running wild as of late and I suspect they wouldn't want to risk the potential embarrassment of him having a 'moment' in front of a Capitolite.

"Edison, how are you darling? My Marie was telling me about that Mr. Harrison: I can't believe that your teacher was trying to expose you to Anti-Capitol propaganda, I was appalled when I heard it and I must say, I was very glad to hear that your father dealt with it so quickly. Young minds are so impressionable after all."

I nod along with Mrs. Appleby; she is one of my closest friend's mothers and a wonderful lady at that. Always committed to the Capitol cause, and very respectful to my father and supportive of what some people have referred to as his 'extreme methods'. I thank her profusely and we continue to exchange pleasant chatter to fill the time, I pass my best on to her husband who has fallen ill recently and she extends an invite for my family to join hers tomorrow evening for tea. I reassure her that I will tell my father, and by the time our conversation reaches a stand still we are near the front of people congregated on the train platform.

If I was excited before, it pales in comparison to what I'm feeling now: My palms are sweating and I can't help but jump from foot to foot: Craning my neck to ensure I have a great view of when the train will arrive. A few moments pass, and I can hear a strange rumbling sound. I can hear the people around me become more excited as they think it's the train arriving: I'm not so sure myself. Capitol trains may travel at over 200mph but they're practically silent.

As the rumbling grows closer, my heart drops: It is most certainly not the engine of a Capitol train. I'm able to distinguish a few words here and there, and I freeze. This cannot be happening; they're going to ruin everything. They always do, as childish as it may be I stomp my feet and fold my arms across my chest. The 'Anti-Capitol' movement have come to make their voices heard: Wearing masks of course, they love to throw about their slanderous barbs towards the Capitol but they're too cowardly to face the punishment. I hate them, I hate them all.

"You can't take our children…"

"Fuck the Capitol, and fuck the Hunger Games."

They're waving picket signs in the air, and although I can't read them from this distance: I'm pretty sure that whatever they say would really aggravate me. The people surrounding me are talking in hushed whispers and it's great to hear that they share my opinion on this matter: These Rebel vermin are going to ruin the arrival of the Capitol delegate, and tar us all with their dastardly paintbrush. They're going to think we're all like 'them', vagrants who have no manners and look as though we get dressed in the dark.

My father will make sure every single one of those masked cowards, are whipped to within an inch of their life. The thought soothes me a little, but my heart falters as I see the silver express train pull into the station. My heart flutters, and I can hardly look at the train doors: They'll probably turn right back around and return to the Capitol saying nothing but how District Five is saturated with idiots. Without warning the doors spring open and a battalion of Peacekeepers exit onto the platform. Without hesitation they head towards the gathering of 'Anti Capitol' supporters, weapons aloft.

The protestors begin to chant more desperately, refusing to break ranks. That doesn't last long and I look on as the Peacekeepers engage with the rebels: The air is suddenly filed with screams. I can't look away as the Peacekeepers rip through the group of Rebels and moments later I hear shots being fired: The Peacekeepers move with deadly precision as they eliminate each threat with frightful efficiency. More shots are fired, and while it may be shocking I can't help but think that each and every one of them deserve it. A very clear message has been sent by the Capitol: District Five is under the control of the Capitol, accept this or face the consequences.

I'm not surprised that I'm not alone in congratulating the Peacekeepers on a job well done with thunderous applause, my father would have loved to have witnessed this impressive display of dominance: But he is setting up a protection detail for Flora for when she visits the Mayor later this evening. If only Yaris could've been here to see it: Maybe he was, maybe he was one of those cowards in a mask. I can only hope. Once the applause dies down everyone's attention returns to the train as the doors and we all wait with baited breath as the doors open at a painfully slow pace for the second time.

As she steps from the train, it is as though a Goddess has graced us from Heaven. Willing to walk amongst mortals: I am slack jawed in wonderment as I take in her physical perfection: Skin dyed a delicate shade of lemon, plump lips and hooded eyelids painted a vibrant lime. And the tropical paradise is completed with an elaborate orange ball gown. Her hair matching the colour of the dress perfectly, her lengthy tresses are pulled into an intricate up-do.

"Hello District Five, Happy Hunger Games."

Her voice is like music, every syllable crisp and clear: The thunderous applause Flora receives eclipses that which was given to the Peacekeepers moments earlier. Happy Hunger Games indeed, and long live the Capitol.

* * *

 **Jake Richardson, 18, District 2.**

Victor was dead. Victor Kane, the very same man who had grown up alongside me since ten years old. Dead, in one moment your best friend is alive and then they're dead. The Peacekeepers stormed his family home and killed anyone who was present at that time: There were rumours of why he'd been killed. Being what most people would call 'sociable' I've heard a few of these rumours, ranging from believable to downright absurd: Bedding the daughter of a prominent Capitolite, attempting to assassinate the Mayor. None of those were true, I know why he was murdered and I'm guilty of the same crime: Treason towards the Capitol.

My father had made an offhand remark this morning, about how the Peacekeepers had come into possession of evidence that could condemn a number of people to death for treason. My stomach has been in knots ever since, churning as bile rises to burn the back of my throat sporadically: I am one of those people. Victor and I were closer than brothers, and in private we were very brutal in our distaste towards the Capitol. Walking towards the Quarry, my heart stutters every time I pass a Peacekeeper in their pristine white uniforms: The paranoia that their eyes, shielded by armoured visors, are following me wherever I go.

Every time I hear the creak of a door, or the rustle of a cloak in the wind: I keep my eyes steadily trained on the floor, wishing I can fade into the background like a chameleon. Such little pleasures however are denied to me, people are quick to shout out greetings and every time I have to force a smile to my face I feel the bile burn my throat: Jake Richardson, the easy-going social butterfly has undergone metamorphosis. He is now Jake Richardson, man anxiously awaiting his imminent death. 'Act like nothing ever happened' is the mantra I'm repeating inside my mind, but it did happen and my best friend is dead.

Eyes trained to the ground, I continue to travel the well-worn path that leads to the Quarry: My feet repeating the steps they'd travelled many times before. How was I meant to do this? Tell Darren that Victor is dead. Even though I know it to be true, the idea still tastes like a lie on my tongue. Knocking into someone I lift my hands, an apology waiting on my lips: But when I look into the cold grey eyes of Wayne Webb, any intentions of apologising are long gone.

"Wayne, what're you doing here? You work on the other side of town."

The words may be pleasant enough, but my voice is twisted with the hate I feel for this man. His unnaturally thin lips curl into a malicious grin as he circles me slowly like a rabid wolf; in terms of stature I am much more muscular, but he is far more dangerous. A regular guest to all the social events of the Upper class, he has friends in high places and a ruthlessness that doesn't prevent him exploiting that.

"Funnily enough Jakey, I was looking for you."

Gritting my teeth, I attempt to smile but can do nothing more than grimace. I'd be content to never have to see Wayne Webb ever again, but the sadistic glint in his eyes: The grey glimmering with a silent threat. He knows something, and I know this isn't my paranoia flaring up. Wayne Webb would seek me out for nothing less than a guarantee to inflict physical or psychological suffering: He's always been a bastard.

"As much as I would like to stand around and exchange pleasantries, I have something I need to do."

My voice sounds shockingly genuine as I move past Wayne, he just moves aside without comment but he chuckles to himself. I feel adrenaline flood my system as I walk away, I can't help but be surprised that I came away from an encounter with the only man I'd ever call my 'nemesis' unscathed: But the relief turns to dread instantaneously as he calls out to me in his oily voice.

"I wouldn't want to disturb you from your bad habit of slandering the Capitol would I now, Richardson?"

Everything freezes, my heart feels as though it is about to take flight and burst from my chest. I can even feel my hands beginning to sweat profusely. I highly suspect that a Peacekeeper is going to appear from nowhere and gun me down for my so called 'slander' I wait a moment and I don't hear any shots being fired, before turning back to Webb in hope that I only imagined him saying that. The wolfish grin marring his twisted features is enough to tell me that it wasn't a figment of my imagination. I remain rooted to the spot as Wayne moves toward me with an eerie grace, like a serpent poised to strike at any moment.

"See, I thought you'd be more compliant. Would you care for a drink at the Tavern?"

Gritting my teeth, I simply nod my head and follow him as he leads me away from my intended destination. The first thing that runs through my mind is to play stupid, deny any allegations and make him feel stupid as to suggest that I'd do anything as ridiculous as commit treason: No, Wayne is like a rabid dog with a bone. He'll see right through any charade I attempt: For a fleeting moment, I imagine reaching over and simply snapping his neck. But Wayne Webb's disappearance wouldn't go unnoticed, and I would be highly surprised if he didn't tell at least one person that he had come to seek me out.

* * *

Entering the Tavern, Wayne directs me towards a table before heading to the bar with his smug smile firmly in place. I head towards to empty table towards the rear of the room; every step feels like I'm taking a step closer towards death. I'm helpless, Wayne wouldn't have confronted me about this if he didn't know he could back me into a corner: Figuratively and literally as I take a seat against the wall. My chest begins to tighten and my vision begins to blur as my breath begins to escape in harsh pants, being no stranger to anxiety attacks I close my eyes and try to take calming breaths but it's a useless endeavour.

"Oh, Jake. There's nothing to be worried about, I just want to have a little chat and talk to you about a 'favour' I need you to do for me…Do you understand me?"

He'd pronounced every word clearly, patronisation lacing every syllable: I can tell that he's enjoying this. Like a hunter playing with their prey before they ultimately end the suffering, but Wayne has no intention of ending the suffering anytime soon. I simply nod my head, Wayne loves the sound of his own voice and I doubt there is anything I can say to try and change his mind about whatever it is he wants from me. He nods his head at me before a triumphant grin lights up his face, and I have to suppress an intense urge to empty the contents of my stomach onto the table. I try to discretely sniff the drink he slid across the table toward me, it smells fine and I take a small sip.

"So, I'm going to paint you a picture Jake. And I apologise in advance, because it isn't a pretty picture. The Capitol is being very 'prudent' in their quest to eliminate any potential threat. Little Victor was deemed a threat and not only was he killed: His whole family was slaughtered. A very clear message is being sent. And I have substantial proof that you were conspiring with him-"

"Then why am I sat here, and not dead right now? I've got it. You need me to do something. What is it?"

Wayne gives me a scathing glance due to interrupting his soliloquy, but I can't bear being in his presence any longer than necessary and his threats unto my family are starting to grate on my nerves. He just stares down at his drink, radiating smugness as he whistles to himself: He continues to drink while my patience wears thinner and thinner, but I won't give him what he wants. He wants me to snap, but he doesn't deserve to see how much his taunting is getting beneath my skin. The seconds become minutes as we sit there in silence, the atmosphere becoming more and more stifling.

"Okay, now that you've proved that you can listen: Victor and his family were killed for their treason. But the Richardson's are a far more prominent family, with Capitol affiliations. Your father is an adviser to the Peacekeepers, working with the Capitol to eliminate the Rebel threat: Imagine how it would reflect on him if his only son was exposed as a 'Rebel'. Was he protecting you? If so, how many others has he protected? Has he been feeding false information to the Capitol? Drake Richardson: A double agent, working on the inside to bring down the Capitol. Then there is your mother is a bodyguard to the Mayor and head of security for the District: Is she leaking information? I mean the Rebels have been exceptionally lucky in choosing their targets. Is she conspiring with her son and ex-husband? The Kane's were blessed with a quick death. Do you think it would be the same for your family? I don't think so."

There's no way I can retaliate, Wayne Webb was never attractive: But he always had an undeniable charisma. And it is becoming more and more obvious that his charisma is going to kill me. I can scarcely imagine the horrors my family and I would face if we were 'exposed', even though my parents are guilty of nothing other than having a son who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. Wayne's eyes shine with triumphant mirth, the 'picture' he painted may not have been pretty. But it was convincing, and that's all the Capitol would need: Especially if Webb could give as compelling of a delivery as he just had.

I slouch in my chair when I realise that there is nothing I can do. I'm powerless in this situation, and Wayne can see that I've accepted it now. My jaw grits as I see Wayne lean back in his chair, eyeing me like the cat that got the cream: This is how he always wanted it, me at his beck and call. My stomach is churning again, and speaking now would be futile: I've always loathed this man, but now I've become his puppet on a string.

"So I think we've reached an understanding: You're to do as I say. And what you're going to do is volunteer as the Male Tribute for the very first Hunger Games."

His smile becomes even wider as my eyes widen in unadulterated shock. He cannot be serious, but even before I can verbalise a plea to do anything but that he has stood up. With his cloak firmly wrapped against his scrawny frame, he looks down at me: Vindication hardens his gaze: I open my mouth to speak, but Wayne shakes his head.

"There is no negotiation Richardson, think of your impending death as an insurance policy: The one thing preventing your parents from facing a fate worse than death. And please don't overestimate yourself and think you'll be able to hoodwink me: My evidence is with a courier. If they don't hear from me, they have very clear instructions to deliver said evidence to the Head Peacekeeper. So let me rephrase this: Are you going to do as I say, and Volunteer as tribute?"

A number of escape plans fly through my mind, but they're all futile. Wayne has always yearned to watch me fall apart, and while I can delay it by pulling myself together now: In a matter of days or weeks, that yearning will be sated. He will watch me die. I am Jake Richardson, a freelance stone worker from District Two, I am eighteen years old and a loving son, a loving friend. I am Jake Richardson, I will be participating in the 1st Annual Hunger Games. I am Jake Richardson, a freelance stone worker from District Two, I am eighteen years old and a loving son, a loving friend: And I am going to die.

* * *

 **So, there we go. It is the longest chapter yet and it would've been much longer if I were able to keep to my writing schedule (Blame writer's block) Anyways, I genuinely hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it… And I'd love to hear what you think in your reviews.**

 **Now, I am going to give you a heads up: I've had a few ideas about how I can make this story a little different than other SYOT's and let certain elements become a little more interactive where you will step into the role of the 'Capitol' or a 'Gamemaker'… But that comes later, I'm just warning you ;) And there will be a very special announcement once I've uploaded the Bloodbath.**

 **Now, I have a few people I really need to thank: Music Rules The World, CreativeASL, FlawlessCatastrophe and Wolvesareawesome13.**

 **They're wonderful people that I've been chatting to and have contributed ideas, distractions (Brooke) and generally made me feel really welcome in the FanFiction world. So round of applause to all of you, but your tributes will NOT be favoured in any way :)**

 **Also, an honourable mention to Paradigm of Writing. He's got an SYOT, Death Under The Sky, and it will feature my very first tribute. It's guaranteed to be awesome personified and you should go and read it even if all the slots are taken :)**

 **And if anyone knows of any SYOT's that need tributes: Hit me up! I have a million and one ideas.**

 **POV's for the next chapter: Saphir DeNoire (D 1), Olivia Bittercress (D 11), Corrine Snow (Head Gamemaker) and**

 **Question for the chapter:**

 **A small explanation of why your tribute(s) should survive the Bloodbath. And a second part, I need a name for an interviewer/Master of Ceremonies: Best suggestion will be used and the one who suggested it will get some kind of reward, which I will think of in due course.**


	7. Chapter 5

**This was due Thursday, but I've been procrastinating. But while I may not have uploaded a chapter: I have a lot of important announcements, which you will be able to find at the end of the Chapter. I urge you to read them, as I think you might find them enjoyable.**

 **As for the previous 'Challenge' you winners from the previous chapter, and their prize will be found with the announcements below.**

 **As for this chapter's tributes (I apologise that there are only two, I promise that I am striving to get to the Capitol ASAP)**

 **Olivia Bittercress was submitted by the wonderful Author of Ice and Fire**

 **Saphir DeNoire was submitted by the scintillating MidnightRaven323**

* * *

 **Olivia Bittercress, 18, District 11**.

I have found myself in an all too familiar setting: Slumped against the wooden bar of the Public House: Cradling the tumbler of whisky in my hand as if it were as precious as any of those stones that are mined up in District One. I saviour the burning sensation as the whisky sears my throat, I revel the numbing sensation seeping through my body as the liqueur collides with my bloodstream: To an outsider, I look pitiful. So dependent on alcohol, and oblivious to what's happening around me: It's ironic, really, that the reason I'm so dependent on alcohol is because I am far too aware of what's happening in the world. And I'm not strong enough to handle it.

My fragile coping mechanism however collapses in one solitary moment, further along the bar a glass hits the floor. And it is then when the fine line between reality and my memories begin to blur: The jarring sound of glass breaking becomes the earth-shattering sound of brick crumbling as the Capitol launches another airstrike. The laughing and conversations of the other clientele fades into nothingness, and I hear a demented symphony of tortured screams.

Disembodies pleas for mercy. The cacophony of sound grows louder and more desperate. The memories of past atrocities threatening to break through into the forefront of my mind. My hands begin to shake and my face scrunches in phantom pain: Grasping the tumbler of whisky I pour the contents into my mouth, awaiting the arrival of my liquid saviour. I could weep in joy as the liquid fire gives me the scolding sensation I crave: The feeling anchors me to reality.

For now, the war is over and the Rebels who took everything from me have been forced underground: I should be able to derive some pleasure from this but I'm empty. Where I should feel joy or happiness, I am numb: Wallowing in the tempestuous waters of grief and sadness. I live a life where I am haunted by nightmares and constant reminders of how broken I truly am.

"Another drink."

My voice is nothing more than a monotonous rasp. As devoid of emotion as I am, or more appropriately, how I long to be. The Bar Keep looks over at me, openly scowling before narrowing her eyes in her disgust before turning back to the customer she was talking with. Another ironic thing really, not one of these people could be more disgusted with me that I am disgusted of myself. A grimace appears on my features as I slap my coins against the bar, with a very healthy tip that she couldn't ignore however much the presence of 'traitorous scum' repulses her. Eyeing the pile of coins she sighs in defeat before grabbing a bottle of whiskey, I smile as I see the amber liquid fill my tumbler.

The Bar Keep throws me one last glare before returning to her earlier conversation, I raise my glass in mock salute before inhaling the pungent aroma of my liquid saviour. Tilting my head back I take a long swig, my eyes closing in a gross mockery of pleasure as I lose myself in the scotch. It is the key to forgetting, locking the doors that keep the ghosts at bay.

* * *

"'Nother drin-"

I can hear my speech slurring, but my lips hold the ghost of a smile: My pockets have become a lot lighter during my tenure at the bar and I can't bring myself to regret one second. The Bar Keep turns to look at me, I would be offended as her lips curl in displeasure but I really don't care. I haven't the will, or the patience, to deal with her petty bullshit. She needs to bring me a drink. Pulling some coins from my pocket, I slam then against the bar and repeat my request. The Bar Keep just cocks her head to the side before folding her arms against my chest, a taunting leer residing on her pretty feautures.

"I'm sorry but I think you've had enough, have you seen the state of yourself?"

The state of myself? I'm drunk, but that is far better than the state of my fractured mind. Patronizing bitch, just stood there as if she's the Queen of the World. They can't deprive me of the one thing saving me from falling into the abyss: The one thing that can keep the memories at bay. I can feel my hand tighten around my tumbler. It's just a game to her, and everyone else here will probably applaud her for taunting the 'Traitor'. Looking around I can make out the blurred bodies of the patrons, eyes fixed on the 'spectacle' of the town drunk. Pulling myself from the stool, I stumble and catch myself on the bar.

"Fine, I'll tak' my bu'ness elsewhere."

Forcing myself to my feet I lose my balance before crashing to the ground. The patrons begin to laugh; it begins as a giggle and becomes a chorus of patronizing guffaws: Let's all point and laugh at the traitorous bitch. Scrambling to my feet I glower at everyone staring before flipping them all the bird. Dragging myself along the bar I teeter towards to exit, mumbling furiously about how they're bastards for trying to deprive me to worship at the shrine of the liquid saviour. Their derisive laughter acting as my fanfare: The edges of my vision are tainted with red as the heavy door slams with a resounding thud.

For a solitary moment, my cheat warms with vicious pride: For the first time in recent memory, this was the first time I'd managed to leave the bar with any semblance of dignity. I hadn't been dragged from the bar, screaming myself hoarse while profusely begging for them to sate the insatiable beast that is my alcohol dependency: One more drink. That's all I ever ask for, one more drink but it never comes. I'm usually dragged, kicking and screaming, from whichever 'establishment' I am frequenting that night. My frantic pleas falling on deaf ears, drowned out by their brutal taunts: Their hurtful words raining down like verbal knives as they unceremoniously throw the infamous traitor from their midst. I can already feel the blessings of alcohol beginning to leave my body, my head swimming and my hands beginning to shake violently. One more drink. I need one more drink.

* * *

Stumbling through the deserted streets of District 11, my nails firmly embedded in the palms of my hands. I feel the skin breaking like autumn leaves beneath a stampede, the crimson droplets falling to stone and glimmering in the subtle glow of the moonlight. My blood spilling to the ground, mimicking the blood I spilled in my futile quest of vengeance. Closing my eyes, I remind myself that this isn't real: Forcing my fingernails further into the tender flesh of my palm. I relish in the pain, my pseudo replacement for my liquid saviour, as it grounds me. It tethers me to reality. It's silent, with the exception of the whistling wind but my heart stops for a second as I imagine the siren wailing to signal the onset of another airstrike.

The desperate cry of mother's running through the streets, praying that their child be one of the lucky few to have survived the pre-empted bombing of the school. The harrowing wails as they cling to the lifeless bodies of their children, the palpable desolation as they begged for it to have been different: For their lives to have been taken rather than their children.

"Please, no. Faunas? Please, it wasn't him. Please. PLEASE"

Screwing my eyes shut, my fingernails firmly embedded in my palms. This isn't real and I wordlessly pray for the screaming to stop, I need one more drink. But the frantic pleas continue, shaking my head from side to side I try to escape the waking nightmare. Emerging from the alleyway across the road are two Peacekeepers, their pristine white uniforms and protective visors making them easy to identify: I stumble back against a wall as I note the limp body they drag between them. My drink addled state and the poor lighting making it difficult to distinguish any of his features but I feel tears beginning to pool in my eyes. Forced to face that this is not some elaborate hallucination, this is actually happening. This is reality, and reality rarely has a happy ending.

"PLEASE STOP! HE ISN'T GUILTY. STOP IT, SOMEONE HELP. PLEASE. SOMEONE HELP. THEY'RE TAKING MY SON."

Emerging from the mouth of the alleyway is a middle aged woman, bordering hysteria as she is begging for someone to step forward. A more courageous person would step forward and try to help, but I know it would be futile: Some people cannot be reasoned with, and Peacekeepers fall into that category. Instead I slump against the wall, longing for the burn of whisky, and watching the woman fruitlessly plead with the soldiers of the Capitol. I was a soldier of the Capitol not too long ago, and there was only one rule to be adhered to: No mercy.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS. I WON'T LET YOU…"

I want to scream out at her to stop, but she reaches out and grabs a Peacekeeper. I feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu and I could've sworn that for a second time froze, and I was no longer of this time as her ochre eyes collided with my own hazel orbs. I saw accusations of my cowardice, acceptance and a grim resignation: A looks that has haunted my dreams since the war had ended. With practiced synchronicity both Peacekeepers turn and two shots are fired.

As the bullets pierce her flesh I slide to the ground, in my mind's eye I see countless bodies suspended in mid-air before dropping against the cold concrete. In this moment I feel as though I am made of glass, and the bullets that have hit this unnamed woman have ricocheted and collided with the fragile barriers of my mind. I shatter, falling to pieces as the memories I've been keeping at bay for so long rise like a tidal wave and crash against the tattered shores of my consciousness. I hear the metallic screech as two more shots are fired, two more deaths to add to the multitude of nameless faces that haunt me. The wars may end, our scars may disappear but our memories: They will never fade.

* * *

 **Saphir DeNoire, 18, District One.**

Sliding from beneath the sating sheets I begin to reach for my clothes. Despite the apparent darkness I am so attuned to this room that I could probably navigate it with both eyes closed and my ankles bound together. Working in complete silence it takes mere seconds for me to locate the majority of my clothing, pulling on my jeans I glance back to ensure Ionia is still sleeping peacefully. A reluctant smile forces its way onto my face when I see how she is basically enveloping the space I had occupied minutes earlier.

Predictable really, how she is constantly craving the one thing she will never truly possess. The old adage, you always want what you can't have, comes to mind: Sliding my arms through my trademark fur lined jacket, savouring the familiar texture against my bare skin. I throw one last glance towards my frequent conquest before breezing from the room. As I see the dim light signalling the hallway, and my most convenient escape route. My foot crashes against something I hadn't seen in the limited vision the darkness had allowed. I close my eyes and send a prayer that Ionia continues on with her seemingly peaceful slumber.

"And where do you think you're going?"

I imagine her voice is meant to be laced with a seductive husk, but I hear the desperation seeping through: If I were to feel anything but a tolerance for the young woman, and a carnal appreciation for her willingness to be available whenever I need her to be, then maybe I would feel a need to soften the blow of my words. But all I truly feel is pity, her fruitless endeavour to create something other than our relationship of casual sex is endearing, but I am not one to feign an apology.

"I have more important places to be Ionia, you know this. And I don't appreciate you trying to tempt me to stay here, you know how our arrangement works."

I walk towards the door, smirking at her defeated sigh. I hear her turn on the lamp, the lavishly decorated room becoming bathed in a golden glow. I spare her another backward glance, from pity I presume, and find her curled o the bed staring after me with an expression of longing. As if she was a blind man seeing the Sun for the first time: While the sentiment caresses my ego, it also tests my patience. It's as though Ionia has forgotten the pivotal aspect of our acquaintance, one I had reaffirmed on numerous occasions, she is nothing more than a 'Fuck Buddy' in the crudest terms possible.

"When will I see you again?"

Her verbal plea for me to return is nothing more than breathy personification of desperation. Ionia seems to have forgotten that men of worth are rarely swayed by a woman who readily makes themselves available, there truly is something about the proverbial 'chase' that is alluring: Reducing men to nothing but moths to a flame. Pausing in the doorway, I do contemplate answering, but her persistence is nothing more than infuriating.

I believe Ionia has the mental capacity to understand something I have told her more than once, and therefore it was a pointless enquiry. She knows that the next time she will see me is at my own convenience, and I have neither the time nor the patience to re-iterate it yet again. Without sparing the young woman a second glance, I fade away like smoke in a breeze; if only Ionia's irrational desires could do the same.

* * *

Strolling through the streets of District One, I am more than aware of the effect I have on people. My very presence is a calculated front, or would it be more prudent to say an exaggerated version of myself. Every step I take I can hear the hushed whispers, I am the enigma: A problem for them to solve. The women, and more than a few men, want me: An idle desire to try and truly understand the eldest DeNoire child.

Infamy, mystery and desire have clung to my reputation for as long as I care to remember and I wouldn't have it any other way. But I have far more important things to do this evening, that pandering to the expectations of others: Walking towards my destination I keep my focus fixed solely ahead: Pushing open the door to the rooftop of the DeNoire Furrier warehouse. Breathing in the crisp night air and smirking that I will be free from the distractions of others' misguided lust or the general air of curiosity that follows in my wake.

I hear the melodic laugh, easily my favourite sound, and my lips curl into a smirk as I walk towards the source of the sound. Pausing as I eye the scene before me, my teeth grit as I see Paris with her hand pressed firmly against Midas' chest. My redheaded friend has always possessed the inability to think about the consequences, and an insatiable desire to throttle one of my only friends makes itself known as he cups Paris' face with his calloused hand. Clearing my throat, the tender moment is shattered: Midas springs back, his blue eyes zoning in on me with an apology written in their azure depths. My sister on the other hand has no such qualms.

"Midas, do my eyes deceive me? Is this real life? Are we mere peasants being blessed with the presence of the almighty Saphir? I don't know how he should've been able to drag himself away from his whore for the evening?"

She throws her arm around Midas' shoulder, a perfectly groomed blonde eyebrow rising in a silent challenge. I can't suppress the smirk that makes itself evident on my face; Paris has always had a talent to cut through my supposed 'bullshit'. As I shrug my shoulders in supposed surrender to her sarcastic barb, she seems appeased and runs over to pull me into a bone crushing hug. Breathing in the lavender scent of her hair, an aroma so distinctly 'Paris', I luxuriate in a rare burst of affection warming my chest.

"Paris, you know me, if there were any whores around: I wouldn't be here. But since I had nothing better to do, I thought I may as well keep you idiots company. I mean, even your twos company is preferable to Ionia. She seems to be plagued with separation anxiety"

Paris simply titters at my analysis of Ionia, she'd never been fond of the young woman: Believing she was, and I quote, 'A disgrace of a woman, who relies wholly on whichever unfortunate man is warming her bed to define her identity'. Midas on the other hand laughs heartily, a little too heartily as my statement was hardly comedic, I see his eyes linger on my younger sister and I hold back the primitive urge to maul him. As his eyes seem to follow Paris, like a newly imprinted duckling, I step between the two and nail Midas with an unimpressed stare.

I can't help but smile smugly as Midas seems to flinch under my unwavering stare, he rushed towards me and hands me an ornate bottle. A subconscious apology on his part, I do not doubt, eyeing the crystalline bottle I feel my eyebrows rise: While poverty is rather scarce in the supposed 'District of Luxury', the bottle of vodka I cradle in my hands is one of the more expensive vices offered. And judging by Paris and Midas' continual giggling and general appearance of inebriation, I doubt this is the only liquor that had been consumed this evening.

"Do I want to know where you got this Midas?"

There is no question in my eyes of who may have 'acquired' the Vodka. Midas just smirks, while Paris exchanges a glance with my friend before succumbing to giggles at some untold story. Prompted by Paris' giggles, Midas turns to me and shrugs nonchalantly; I know he is the only one bold enough to have stolen the bottle: But he seems to be 'Peacocking' in the presence of my sister.

"Ask no questions, and I will tell you no lies."

An unimpressed glare forms on my handsome features, Midas the sole target and like magic he seems to lose his brash attitude. While such an answer coming from most people would frustrate me to no end, I'd usually accept it from Midas as he seems to cling to any possible chance to infuriate me. But the subtle looks he seems to direct towards my sister are more than enough to piss me off without his bad attitude. Arms folded firmly across my chest, I simply raise an eyebrow as if to challenge Midas to try and push his luck any further than he already has: Midas ' eyes drop to the floor and I relax slightly, my indirect triumph evident.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the roof, I stare down toward the streets below. A distinct sense of being unimpressed hits me as I see people waltz through the streets, most likely towards their homes. It is as though they've overdosed on an elixir of ignorance, completely blind to the world around them. I've never been one to worry about the social and political battleground of Panem: But you would need to be blind to not see the momentous changes that have run through the Districts like a wrecking ball. Their naiveté will become their demise.

I hear the gentle lilt of the whispers between Midas and my sister, but I am unconcerned, they may have been drinking but Midas knows not to test my patience much more this evening: I am confident that he is not stupid enough to try anything. He is more than aware that the consequences would be extremely 'uncomfortable' on his behalf. Pacified with that thought I tip the bottle to my lips, gasping as the heat of the liquor seems to explode in my chest.

"So Saph, what's the plan if I get reaped for these Hunger Games?"

I pause, the bottle held against my lips. If it were anyone else, I would probably congratulate them on using flippancy to shield their anxiety: But Paris was my sister, and one of the few people I would ever genuinely care for. Her anxiety grates against a part of me that I had buried a long time ago, the matter of the fact is that Paris would not survive. She was never the one for physical confrontations or scheming to end the lives of others: She was too soft, too accustomed to the small pleasures in life and too squeamish to participate in the latest means of punishment the Capitol had devised. Sipping the vodka, I appear to ponder her words.

"I'd castrate Midas, and then we could send him in your place. I've always thought he had the legs to pull off a dress."

Paris snorts before bursting into raucous laughter, probably imagining Midas wearing a number of the dresses stored in her extensive closet. Midas' laughter is more hesitant, and I can see him trying to catch my attention: Seeking that I would contradict the factual tone of my previous statement. I meet his gaze, face schooled into a neutral expression: Midas is more than aware that I would do anything to protect Paris, and if he needed to be exploited for that then I would not hesitate to do so. I hold his gaze steadily until his gaze drops to the floor.

"Everything's changing and I don't like it Saph "

Paris seems to have recovered from her fit of the giggles, and her proclamation makes me pause. I've heard my sister whinge about many things, from dresses to schoolwork: Mainly in a self-centred manner, but this observation seems much more poignant. Everything is changing, and all we can do is ride the metaphorical wave. In an infrequent display of affection, I wrap my arm around her slight figure and press my lips against her forehead.

"Accommodemus , nee supersumus pugnae"

From the corner of my eye, I see Paris' lips quirk at my use of the DeNoire family motto: Words our Father would recite to use every morning. 'We adapt, we survive', and there were never truer words spoken. I see Paris, a thankful glimmer in her dark eyes, leans over and press her lips to my cheek. We were of the DeNoire family, no matter the situation: We would adapt, and we could survive.

* * *

 **Corrine Snow, Head Gamemaker, Capitol.**

"… _Please, come and dance with us."_

 _The man froze at the request, the tiny girl with a halo of silvery blonde hair and wearing a dress of white chiffon, resembled and Angel. But one look in her eyes and he became aware that this was not one of God's creations: But rather one of Lucifer's making. His realisation came a second too late, as he turned to flee the young girl sprung: Tackling him to the ground with preternatural force: His screams seem to echo, contributing a sinister harmony to compliment the keening coming from my creation and the blunt crack of splintering bones._

Pressing a button on the transmitter the video feed ends. I doubt that the President requires visual cues to know how it ends, but he can rest assured that the War Criminal faced a sentence much more horrifying than becoming an Avox. There is a preganant pause, while my own face remains a mask of indifference: Garrick DeMontford wears an expression of pure glee mingling with amazement. Turning to me he simply shakes his head, as if trying to remind himself that this was real.

"Amazing Corrine, I'll never know how you are able to do this. These mutations are so life like, and yet: They look like they were born from nightmares."

I'm sure that he continues to ramble about my plethora of achievements, and while recognition for my excellence is appreciated: It would be much more valued if it came from someone able to understand the extent to which I have pushed the boundaries of science. To someone who could comprehend the enormity of creating chemical weapons that are purpose made to torment someone to the point that they're unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy. But rather than pondering Garrick's lack of intelligence in the realm of science and his inability to understand the level of my own genius: I simply smile graciously and incline my head.

"Thank you for your kind words Garrick; obviously I would've been unable to achieve any of this without your encouragement and support. But rather than procrastinating on how 'life like' my mutations are: Maybe I could continue showing you the inventory of traps and mutations that could be utilized throughout the Games?"

My thanks are insincere, as I know that my excellence is down to my own perseverance, not the support of a 'man'. Garrick just nods his head along with what I'm saying, probably glad that I haven't employed the use of scientific vocabulary: I cringe as I remember trying to explain how I plan to use an isotope extracted from Tracker Jacker venom in conjunction with a gas that promotes enhanced activity in the hippocampus. I continue to show Garrick the 'Control Centre' and indulge his child like curiosity: If he weren't such a prolific politician then there is no question that I would never speak to the man again.

I leave Garrick fawning over the holographic map of the Arena, grey eyes wide in amazement. I fire up my personalised CapiTab, my thumbprint unlocking the unnamed file that had enslaved my focus over the last few weeks: File 'X' was the key to my ultimate success. It was a guarantee that despite anything that the tributes, the Capitol, the Rebels or even the President himself may do: It would be I, Corrine Snow, who would retain the role of Panem's Puppet Master. Some refinement was needed, but I could almost feel that I am on the precipice of creating something that would without a doubt become central to the vicious power hierarchy of the Capitol.

"What is that you're looking at Corrine?"

Garrick has abandoned his station, obviously having grown disinterested in the Arena. Uninspiring, it truly is, how he is unable to focus on something as revolutionary as the Geo-Construction of the Hunger Games first ever Arena. He is far too enamoured with my beauty, embarrassing on his part really. If I had any suspicion that Garrick would be able to understand File 'X' I may have felt my icy façade crumble, but alas I simply lock the file with my unique passcode.

"Something of very little importance, a little pet project of mine. So is there anything else you would like to see, or discuss?"

My tone is sharp, and Garrick looks taken aback momentarily. Scolding myself internally, I'd vowed to keep Garrick on side, and now is not the time to alienate the man masquerading as the most powerful figure in Panem. For now, that is. To placate him, I turn to him and give him what would fool many as being a sincere smile: Leaning forward I place my hand against his forearm in lieu of an apology. The effect is instantaneous, Garrick's face splits into an overly enthusiastic grin: Men truly are predictable, give them one iota of attention and they forget everything. Like animals, they're easily satisfied. After being exposed to my 'charm' Garrick takes a moment to compose himself before clearing his throat, pulling a pile of papers from his briefcase and handing them to me.

"I've had to make some minor revisions to the 'Pre-Arena Programme'. I've compiled a revised outline. The main concern of mine was the sponsorship system: People have been requesting more opportunities to assess the tributes, personally. Before choosing who they will sponsor, or if they will sponsor at all."

It may be an inconvenience, but it is a necessity. I can sympathise with the opinion, being someone who likes to consider all perspectives before devising a plan of action. This isn't a question of if we're going to give people more 'tribute time' but how, as the sponsors are an integral part of the Games' success. The Hunger Games themselves are funded by the Department of National Security, and sponsored by CapiCorp. But the sponsorships from the Capitolites can be used to fund other pursuits, such as File 'X'.

"So, what are you proposing Garrick? The request may be annoying, but it is not unreasonable."

Garrick walks around, I've noticed that when he is thinking he tends to pace unlike my own habits of remaining eerily still. While he rambles on about Masters and Mistresses of Ceremonies, and Remake Centres. I pull a sheet from the manila folder he had handed me earlier, rolling my eyes as I see the distinctive scrawl I have come to know as Garrick's handwriting. Tuning out his rambling I scan the list, and consider myself surprised by the level of thought and detail in the document: Maybe the President isn't as linearly intelligent as I had originally believed.

 **Reapings:** _ **Once the tributes have been selected via lottery, they will then be transported to the 'Justice Building' where they will be given an allotted time to say goodbye to their families and friends, it is at this time that they must surrender a 'token' to the Board who will assess if the 'token' is suitable and will not gift them with an unfair advantage.**_

 _I have decided that at this time, we will have a televised broadcast of the Reapings for the Districts and the tributes. It would give them an idea of the people they will be facing in the Arena. But, for the Capitol and potential sponsors: I was thinking of a 'Capitol Special' in which each tribute is discussed: From their first impressions, to any facts we may have found etc. Just to give them more of a flavour of the people they would be sponsoring._

 **Remake Centre/Tribute Parade:** _ **Upon their arrival to the Capitol, each tribute will be assigned a Stylist and Prep Team who will help them dress for all televised aspects of the Games (with the exception of entering the Arena) They will be made to look presentable, to Capitol standards, before participating in a Public Parade.**_

 _At this time, I was considering having a potent…_

"Miss Snow, I'm sorry to disturb you. But we have a slight issue that needs your urgent address."

The monotonous tone of my 'Second in Command', Gianna Clayton, cuts through my focus. Turning to her she looks completely indifferent to any supposed 'emergency' but I know she would not disturb me unless it was important. I can see Garrick about to object, probably hoping for me to shower him with compliments for what he believes to be his 'Genius' amendments to the itinerary, I silence him with a small smile. Gianna's crimson eyes remain affixed to a spot on the wall, feeling at ease in the awkward atmosphere that had developed within the control room.

"I'll be right with you Gianna. Garrick, I'm so sorry to have to leave you. I'll make sure to look over your proposal and get back to you as soon as possible: I am sure that you understand how important it is for me to have everything ready in time for the Games?"

I spy Gianna's unimpressed expression at my 'pandering' to Garrick. Garrick himself however beams, before beginning to make plans to grab 'drinks'. I simply nod my head in a non-committal fashion before walking from the room.

* * *

Gianna follows me as we walk briskly down the hallway. A comfortable silence between the two of us, Gianna's blank expression remains the same as usual: But after having worked in close proximity with the young woman, for so long I am able to spot the subtle nuances that identify she has something to say. The silence stretches for a few more moments before Gianna's blunt monotone pierces the silence.

"I still believe that rather than this weird relationship you have with Garrick: It would be more prudent to simply kill him. I think it would be far more enjoyable than marrying the man before you kill him. I found killing Samsa very satisfying, but you might prefer the delayed gratification."

Conceding that my assistant has a valid point I nod my head, Gianna was an asset: Cold, ruthless, brilliant and never bothered about getting her hands dirty. But my plan for Garrick has been meticulously planned since before he was even named as President, and so far everything is proceeding as I had anticipated: Ridding the world of Garrick would be 'satisfying' as Gianna pointed out. But it could impede my projected ascension to power, and I would not tolerate such variables. So I will suffer through Garrick's company for as long as it takes for the criteria for the next phase of my plot to pass.

"Gianna, have you never heard that good things come to those that wait: Well I am simply being very patient and waiting to reap the rewards. But onto more important matters than our imbecilic President, what is this emergency?"

I continue to walk, only stopping when I realise that Gianna has paused. Noting the expression marring her features, my heart seems to flutter in excitement. The expression itself would terrify the most courageous of men, her thin lips painted a harsh mauve are twisted into a mockery of a smile, but I knew that whatever was able to penetrate the emotionless mask that has maintained a permanent tenure on her handsome features: It would be momentous.

"Just a little incident with an unstable chemical compound. But I think it would be something that you'd enjoy, something that I think you've been secretly waiting to happen for a while..."

* * *

 **Okay, I have been overwhelmed by the level of support for my first story. And while this is my focus as of right now, I have actually decided that I will continue this series: I have actually plotted some things out. I will be writing a companion piece to this story, a series of one shots to 'fill in the blanks' between my two SYOT's, and the sequel which will have a companion piece of its own.**

 **SO ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE 'THE REMEMBERENCE CYCLE' *Dancing and Clapping***

' **Never Forgotten' – A series of one shots centred on each of the tributes who die throughout the Games. It will take a look back at their home Districts and see how they react. It could also include an epitaph or some way they have influenced the Capitol. It is very much a way of giving an 'end' to each tributes story.**

' **In Retrospect' – A series of one shots focussing on the Victors of the 2** **nd** **through till the 14** **th** **Hunger Games. It will introduce people who will be Mentors, as well as defining moments such as the beginnings of the Career Pack and how the Games have the routine we see in the novels. It will also provide development of the 'Capitol Plot'.**

' **To Be Remembered: The 15** **th** **Annual Hunger Games' – The SYOT sequel to 'Lest We Forget'. It will tell the tale of the 15** **th** **Hunger Games and I will need 24 new tributes.**

' **In Remembrance' – The same premise as 'Never Forgotten' but regarding the tributes from To Be Remembered**

 **So, basically: I will be devising a new 'Tribute Form' which will be excruciatingly detailed. If you'd like me to send you the form when I have compiled it, please state so in your review: You can submit as many tributes as you like, I will be accepting submissions until after the Bloodbath of 'Lest We Forget' (And that will give you a lot of time to work on your submissions) I will then read through each submission and choose the tributes, my selections will be announced as we reach the Final 12.**

 **I would appreciate if you spread the word about this: YES, the tributes people submit will not make their debut for a long time. BUT, I've plotted this story, 'Never Forgotten' and 'In Retrospect' fully, I like to think that in the short time I have had this batch of tributes, I have come up with a pretty awesome plot. Just imagine what I can do if I have months to plot a story. I genuinely think it could be EPIC! And each submitter, while they can submit to a plethora of slots: Will only ever have ONE participating.**

* * *

 **Wolvesareawesome13 and Paradigm of Writing were the winners of my 'Name a MC' competition: You're prize is that I will be writing a one-shot of your choice. It can be anything relating to Hunger Games: A Reaping of a Victor from canon, an AU one shot of if Katniss wasn't eligible for Reaping when Prim was called, Haymitch trying to seduce Effie…Or it can come from this story: A childhood memory of your tribute, or another's tribute. These one shots will be collated in a story entitled 'Reaping the Rewards' … So who is ready to reap this chapter's rewards.**

 **Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is: A speech written from you Tributes POV, one tribute if you have more than one in this story, that they would deliver to their Home District if they were to return as a winner. (You can send these speeches via PM)**

 **And don't worry if you don't have a tribute in these Games, you can still participate: You can use one of the tributes introduced so far in the story, you can make guesses about the tributes yet to be introduced...Or you can simply make a Tribute up and tun with that.**

 **The best two will be able to 'Reap the Rewards'**

* * *

 **FINAL ANNOUNCEMENTS:**

 **Go and submit to GenuineHarajukuDoll, she needs tributes before she can start writing her story. And from reading what she has written already, this promises to be a great story.**

 **Join the 24/24 Collaboration that I've joined, it has a bit of a vigorous application process but it will be worth it. You could be assigned as my District Partner and get to write with me, which could be fun :) For more details visit: RandomTeddyBear. You'll find all the details there.**

 ***If you have any announcements you'd like me to make. Or anything like that, hit me up!**

 **So after the longest A/N I think I will ever write. REVIEW**

 **-Nellie**

* * *

 **Tributes appearing in the next chapter: Asher Wild, Rose Francesca Pepperhill, Faron Jennings, Patrick Weaver, Elek Cordova and Didgit Slatter.**


	8. Chapter 6

**Due to Star Wars, and Sisters I have barely wrote a thing, just bits and bobs (out of order, as per usual) but I have decided to give you a 2 POV chapter, to hold you off until Wednesday when I'll be updating with the other 4 POV's that should've been in this chapter.**

 **Yes, I suck: But wouldn't you like to meet two tributes two days earlier? Yep, that's what I thought. This is still over 5,000 words long so it is probably easier to digest than what would probably be over 13,000 words.**

 **This erratic updating does have a reason: Christmas! I have a tonne to do for it, and it is really grating on my nerves.**

 **Asher Wilde, the brain child of CreativeAJL**

 **Rose Francesca Pepperhill, the brain child of Rosemarie Benson**

* * *

 **Asher Wilde, 18, District Seven.**

District Seven, the 'Lumber' District as we are known throughout Panem: We're surrounded by trees every day. They are our livelihood: From the saplings to the gargantuan Oaks residing in the deepest recesses of the forest. Our very survival is dependent on the timber: The ancient forest guardians are sentient beings to those of us accustomed to their constant presence.

It was a simple luxury, to walk through the forest and simply forget: Forget the omnipresent Peacekeepers and their gluttony for sadism. Forget the poverty and unrest spreading throughout the District like wildfire. It is as though the passage of time simply ceases as my worries are hushed by the silent strength of the Elm, my vigour for life reawakened by the crisp scent of pine.

The trees themselves have ingrained themselves into my very being, a soundboard for my innermost fears: My tears have fed the roots of the Oak, my rage carved into the bark armour of the Willow. Catharsis, the expulsion of the negative thoughts and emotions, was something I could only ever achieve within the Earthy embrace of the woods. The gentle rustle of leaves underfoot. Every sight and every sound is therapeutic, soothing the demons that nestle in my very core.

It was a common practice of mine to stroll through the woods, breathing in the aura of tranquillity that blankets the far-reaching woodland. It was here that I first understood the meaning of being at peace; the problems of Asher Wilde were banished by the mere presence of the trees. However, peace has slowly become a foreign concept: My walks through the coppice non-existent under the new Capitol regime. Being deprived of my simple luxury has taken its toll, my temper has grown short and it is now a chore to maintain my easy-going demeanour.

Even now, as I tread the paths I have followed for years: A sense of unease refuses to relinquish its grip on me. As I arrive at my frequent haunt in the woods, breathing in the fragrant sandalwood and listening to the gentle melody of the birds perched in the uppermost branches of the Ferns. Closing my eyes, I surrender my senses to my lifelong acquaintance: The restful sounds of the stream, my fingers graze the supple moss littered across the forest.

"I should've known you'd be here Asher"

My heart stutters as I hear my name fall from her lips, her voice as harmonious as birdsong. I need not open my eyes to imagine how beautiful she will be when bathed in the soft glow of light filtering through the leafy canopy: Caramel coloured skin, darkened by hours spent in the sun; chocolate coloured hair that under the faintest light comes alive with strands of copper and mahogany; a dainty physique that belies her strength and then there are her eyes. Honey coloured eyes that shine with mirth, an innocent joy that survived the war that had held Panem hostage for years.

"And how did you know that Seline?"

Opening my eyes, I drink in every detail. The modest green dress that has moulded to her feminine physique, her brown tresses pulled into an elegant knot: Her beauty never ceases to bewitch me. From the graceful curve of her neck, to the way she moves with effortless grace. As she walks through the clearing, a place I have called mine for so long, I can't help but feel that this is 'right'. Like a woodland nymph, gliding through the trees with practiced ease and comes to stand beside me. Instinctively I take a deep breath, inhaling the distinctive blend of juniper and morning dew.

"Well, for the first time in what seems like forever: The Peacekeepers are too busy setting up the square to have guards stationed at the entrance of the woods. The 'Jacks got off early, and with the Reaping being today: I assumed you'd come to our 'Happy Place'"

Something I could only call melancholy balls in my gut, this place was ours. 'Was' becoming the operative word, since the introduction of a District wide curfew and the rapid growth in the Peacekeeper population: I'd not set foot inside my Natural sanctuary. In consequence, I'd barely seen Seline: The woods were ours, but I had never been able to call her mine. That thought, as always, caused my teeth to grit and hands to tremble: A familiar hollowness making itself known inside my chest.

"As always, you were right Seline. I just felt like I needed to be out here, if I was stuck back there for much longer I feel like I'd snap. I mean, it's all starting to get on top of me: The Peacekeepers constantly appearing from nowhere, the longer working hours and now these Hunger Games. I feel like I'm reaching my limit S, just need to be out here and take the edge off. You know what I mean?"

Sliding to the ground, I sit with my back against an aging Willow: Seline's ochre orbs glitter with understanding. She'd probably felt as lost as me with the recent restrictions, Seline was probably the only person to frequent the woods as often as I. She was the one who told me to close my eyes, to just forget the problems of life in the District and surrender to 'Nature's Orchestra' as she had called it. Patting the cushion of moss and autumn leaves, I gestured for her to sit.

"Well come on, take a seat."

An informal request, my voice filled with its usual cheer: Or a rather convincing imitation. The tiniest tremor in my voice communicating what I had left unspoken: Please stay, I could use you right now. But my hope deflates like a balloon on seeing her face, her teeth teasing her plump lower lip and her forehead creases. Before she even opens her mouth, I know what she will say. Rage silently simmering in the pit of my stomach, I can hear my blood rushing in my ears: An irrational desire to break something ripping through my consciousness. Struggling to keep my jovial façade in place, I gesture for Seline to sit again and wait for the verbal rejection.

"Ash, you know that if I could I would. But Edri really wants to see me before the Reapings, and he'll be expecting me. I just wanted to see you too, make sure how you're holding up."

Even hearing his name in Seline's silky timbre is enough to make me feel sick, her lips caressing his name like the lyric of an old love ballad. Resignation is something I'm all too familiar with when it comes to Edri Lofflan and his relationship with Seline: For as long as I can remember, I had wanted Seline. For her to see me as anything but a 'friend', my mother had encouraged me to be the perfect gentleman. Chivalrous, complimentary and charismatic: I truly believed that we would get together, get married and raise a family. But those were nothing more than misguided fantasies.

Seline Ashford didn't want me, she desired Edri: The arrogant bastard who treated her like the mud on his boots, and spoke to her like she were a second-class citizen. The fact that Seline adored him wasn't what fuelled my hatred for the weasel, it was the way he put her on display: Rubbing their relationship in my face at every opportunity. He loves to indulge his sadistic longing of pushing me towards the edge of my patience. Edri knew that Asher Wilde was more than just the cheerful lumberjack, and he wanted to see my carefully crafted demeanour crumble.

"Of course he wants to see you Seline, but I'd like to see you later. The Tavern? After the Reaping?"

Her face lights up when I ask the simple question, my heart stuttering. For one moment, I can pretend that she might love me as much as I do her. That errant thought is enough to banish my simmering rage to the back of my mind, my features falling into their usual expression of merriment. Her elegant features mould into a similar countenance, before she winks in my direction.

"Of course I will be there. On one condition: You have to promise me a dance."

I see the scene unfolding in my mind's eye: Pulling her lithe body flush against my own, and swaying to the sensual melody. The intoxicating perfume of Seline saturating the air: Her very presence overwhelming each of my senses. Before my imagination can run too wild I take a deep breath: A sincere smile carved onto my lips. A raspberry blush bursts into life on her cheeks, most likely prompted by the dazed expression I have no doubt is marring my features, and I am struck with the sudden urge to reach over and feel the warmth of the blood pooling beneath the satin of her skin.

"You know me; I'll be saving the last dance for you."

* * *

The scene has been replaying on loop inside my head: Her lips grazing my cheek. The 'see you later' whispered into my ear as she pulled me into her arms: Purely platonic actions on her behalf, but so much more to me. My hand reaching around to capture the nape of her neck: We were in 'our' place and I don't know what possessed me, it could've been desperate hope or temporary insanity, but I kissed her. Asher Wilde kissed Seline Ashford. Wonderment was one word I would have used to describe that solitary moment, but wonderment rarely lasts long.

She pulled away, her face projecting shock momentarily before I saw the two things I should have expected: Pity and rejection. The way she basically fled, like I was nothing more than a wild animal. With nothing but an insincere good luck and some garbled mutterings in explanations, she disappeared into the thick foliage of trees. I couldn't really hear the words; too busy chastising myself for springing a kiss on a girl who was somebody else's. But one word stood out. One word that has been ricocheting against my skull like a raging bull ever since: Edri. Edri Lofflan. The man who has the one thing I want, and isn't afraid to say so.

It always starts the same way: Fixation. Edri. If he weren't in the picture, then there is no doubt in my mind that Seline would be mine. The Queen she is meant to be, rather than simply being one of Edri's 'belongings'. The fixation grows, like a seed that is sprouting into a sapling: You begin to see what life could be like. He is the only person in this District that I can wholeheartedly say I loathe: It is as though he epitomises everything that I find despicable in a person. If there were no Edri, then I'd be at Peace: I wouldn't have to hide away in the forest, trying to douse the raging flame that is my temper.

I wouldn't feel like a bomb: As if I could explode and hurt those around me without a moment's notice. If my rage was fire, then Edri is the fuel that keeps the fire burning: Fanning the flames. He makes me dangerous; he is the one that can reduce me to nothing more than a slave to anger. As if to taunt me, I can picture his face: Aristocratically handsome with his sharp cheekbones and hooded eyes the colour of slate that always appear to be narrowed in distaste. The constant sneer etched onto his classically handsome features, looking down on those he sees beneath him.

'She chose me, Asher…She chose me then, she chose me now and she will choose me forever', my earlier musings of dancing with Seline slowly become mutated: Edri now standing in my place. But rather than the image of innocence we were, it's become distorted. Rather than swaying to the music under the bright lights of the tavern, there are shadows surrounding the couple and Edri's hands are roughly pawing at the womanly contours of Seline. Her head thrown back, a scream of pain intermingling with a whine of ecstasy: Closing my eyes to try and end the movie in my mind. But it's no use.

Like a bloodstain on a white shirt, the images remain. Like a length of rope my self-control is slowly fraying. In my head I hear the sound that has been the soundscape to my nightmares, the gasoline to my rage: The mirthless, cruel laughter of Edri Lofflan. The man who had it all and I'm left with nothing.

"NOTHING"

It is almost a relief. The plethora of emotions disappear, the inner voices tormenting me become silenced. The anger that had been simmering within me had reached boiling point, becoming adrenaline and shooting through my veins. Asher Wilde is gone; his problems vanish as the monster within takes control. Edri, Seline, dead relatives all cease to be anything but a toxin: A toxin that pollutes every cell.

Rational thought fading into unadulterated wrath: Flesh and bone collides with bark. The splintering of bark, the tearing of skin: A violent symphony playing throughout the coppice. Pain mingles with pleasure as my fists rain continuously against the Oak, a sadistic pleasure sends shivers down my spine as my blood falls to the moist Earth. The loss of control is exhilarating. The pain, the pleasure and the release taking over: As the bark splinters and the blood flows, the rage begins to seep from my body. Like a poison sucked from the bite of a snake, the vehemence slowly recedes into the back of my mind: Asher Wilde once again seizes control from the monster he had relinquished it to only moments ago.

The first thing I notice is the steady stream of tears making tracks against my cheeks, then the throbbing pain: My knuckles are bleeding profusely, scarlet droplet hitting the forest floor like a metronome. A chuckle bursts from my lips, as always: The monster has left me battered and bruised, but my sanctuary remains unchanged. The Forest Guardians impervious to the inferno of my ire.

* * *

 **Rose Francesca Pepperhill, 18, District One.**

While the task of trying to run a popular Inn may have been daunting to many, I just felt at home as I micro-managed every minute detail. Pulling my ebony hair into a ponytail and pushing my glasses up my nose, I am faced with the accounts book and one thing has me concerned. There has been a steady decline in profit as of late, technically this is to be expected: Wars were never particularly beneficial to the economy. But I was raised by Arthur Pepperhill, and I pride myself on having become a shrewd business woman under his instruction.

And when a business faces crisis on the profit front, the business has to adapt: Find a niche to fill, and then the profit crisis disappears. Although 'The Mystic Ridge' is hardly in crisis, I find myself making contingency plans in case the profit margins grow smaller: As father always says 'be prepared for the worse'. My mind summons images of masquerade balls, murder mystery events and even 'disco' type events for the younger population of neighbouring towns: Business' can only expand when their demographic does. Especially in the shark infested water that is the hospitality sector.

"Rose, get your head out of those books and get on with your chores."

One day, I'll be the one calling the shots. Rose Pepperhill will be running the most successful Inn-cum-bar in District One, while my parents enjoy a well-earned retirement: But that day is not today. Today, I'm still the daughter of the owner who is also the on-site handywoman: The Jack of all trades of the 'Inn-dustry'. Nodding in the general direction of where I heard my mother's voice I pull out my 'Job List', handwritten by my mother each day. My eyebrows rise as I see there are a lot less jobs to be done today: Probably to give myself enough time to look presentable before heading to the Reaping.

"Mother, I've already done everything. This is just the routine checks that the Bar Keeps tend to do."

I'm probably whining, which is absurd: I may be eighteen, but I'm still a teenager and most teenagers are allergic to hard work. But I thrive when I have so much to do; multi-tasking is my equivalent of getting stupidly drunk: Poring over inventories and stock orders is as fascinating to me as the priceless jewels my home District is known for. My mother emerges from the kitchen, grey hair pulled into a loose bun and her blue eyes dull with resignation.

"Rosie, you do too much. Before you inherit the place, you'll be dead. You work yourself too hard: Your Pa's out making deliveries at the moment, but while he is gone I can manage on my own. Go and have a bath, get ready with Jemima: And then tonight, do something fun with your time and then it's back to the grind tomorrow. Do you understand me young lady?"

A million reasons of why I shouldn't be wasting time having a bath when I could be doing more important things, like flushing out the pipes for the ale tap, are on the tip of my tongue: But it is of no use. If it were my father, I may have had a chance of making him see things from my perspective: No such chance exists when I'm dealing with my overbearing mother, Jane, who is constantly moaning about how I should be acting my age and 'having fun'.

If I were as petulant and disrespectful as most people my age, I'd probably comment on how telling an 18 year old to 'have fun' could be deemed irresponsible parenting on her part. But I am not rude, so I sulk while I head towards the stairway imagining how the mahogany bar would glitter under the lights of a chandelier. While being banished from the bar is pretty irritating, I'm not averse to spending some quality time with Jemima. She's always busy nowadays, between her 'wonderful' boyfriend and her shifts at the Inn, I never seem to see her.

While climbing the staircase to Jem's living quarters, I'm silently thinking of how I could re-decorate the bedrooms in an array of styles: Maintaining the rustic feel my parents favour, while modernising certain elements to appeal to a broader pool of clientele. Remembering Jemima's proposal to have a 'Stripper Night' once a month, I laugh out loud: Crude as it may be, she was onto the right idea. Sex is often utilised in marketing campaigns, I can't deny that I would buy anything she tried to sell me: The unsophisticated direction of my thoughts causes me to pause and scold myself for a moment.

"F—K, -NT?"

My heart leaps into my throat when I hear the raised voices, my mind automatically jumping to the worst conclusions. But thankfully, I wasn't one to burst in on something unknown, and I have a perfectly good excuse for what I'm about to do: Eavesdropping. Well I doubt it can be called eavesdropping when they're shouting so loudly, plus I'm a concerned friend. Edging closer to the door, I try to make out the garbled speech, but it is fertile: My father had invested in the finest quality Oak doors, imported from District Seven prior to the War, to maintain the privacy of the rooms occupants.

While I can't pick out the words, the tone is very easy to identify: Anger, but Jemima is too quiet for my liking. Obviously something is not right, so I have to step in: Taking a deep breathe, I raise my fist and bang the door three times. The shouting stops momentarily and the door is thrown wide: Damien Gabriel looks down at me. I was expecting some kind of animalistic savagery based on the racket her was making seconds ago, but instead: His baby blue eyes are wide and if I'm not mistaken, he looks petrified. He nods in my general direction, before briskly walking away from the room.

Before I can even begin to be confused as to how someone can jump from anger to fear, I hear a sob coming from inside Jem's living quarters, rushing in. I find her curled on the bed: Strawberry blonde hair scraped into a sloppy ponytail, skin blotchy from crying. Jemima has always been the 'Happy' one, and seeing her cry has always felt like a kick in the stomach: It just seems unnatural. But I've never seen her like this, trembling and sobbing so viciously that my heart breaks. Rushing over, I cradle her face in my hands: The chocolate brown of my irises clashing with her jade green.

"Jem, you need to breathe or you will end up catatonic: Do it with me, in and out"

In any other circumstance, I would revel in the fact that I could so flippantly touch her. But now, I just want her to stop crying: She needs to calm down as she is bordering hysteria. Running my fingers through her hair, I whisper words of comfort while she continues to sob continuously. Pulling her head against my shoulder, I begin to rock back and forth while cooing at her like one would with a frightened child.

"Shhh, shhh… Come on, calm down Jem. I can't help you if you don't calm down and tell me what is wrong."

We could've been there minutes, or hours while I tried to get Jem to resemble some semblance to her usually cheery self. Eventually the sobbing begins to quieten, and she isn't clinging to me so fiercely: Pushing her away I look into her face, my heart splinters a little more when I see how distraught she looks. Her vibrant smile is nowhere to be seen. I open my mouth to ask her what's wrong, but before I can even form the words she bursts like a dam.

"Rose, I'm screwed. Screwed sideways, upwards, backwards…Truly screwed: I know I'm going into the Hunger Games. I just know it and now I find this out…"

Before she can even finish her sentence, she breaks down yet again: But I notice the way she cradles her abdomen, I recall the pure terror in the eyes of Damien. As I reach the conclusion, Jemima utters the word that confirms my worries: 'Pregnant'. I had always entertained the idea that one day Jemima would wake up and care for me the way that I care for her, I knew it was a long shot: But I always had hope. And now that hope is gone, rather than allowing her to see how disheartened I am I try to smile and fail miserably.

There will always be the Inn, and that thought comforts me. That was always meant to be my future: Jemima, in my wildest dreams, was meant to be a part of that too. But now she is irrevocably tied to Damien. They're having a child. And at this time I can't sympathise with Jemima's sadness, she had always talked of wanting a child and then I remember her preposterous exclamation.

"Jem, I'm your friend. You're being a little ridiculous, you're having a baby: I thought you'd want to celebrate. Damien looked scared. But he'll come around, he always does…And this Hunger Games business. You won't be picked, it's statistically impossible: Well very unlikely. Don't stress yourself out, that's not good for your baby."

The motivational speech is stilted and lacking sincerity, but it was what Jem needed to hear: And what else are best friends for. She contemplates what I'd said for a moment, before a small smile curls her lips and a spark of life resurfaces in her jade eyes. Throwing her arms around me she pulls me into a hug, pressing a kiss against my chick. The place her lips brushed my skin feels as though it's burning.

"You're right Rosie, I can't let myself get stressed. It'll probably be some weird kid from uptown who is picked… I can't believe this has happened though: Pregnant? Me. It's gonna be hard, but I've got my little Peppercorn to help me out. Don't I?"

Mechanically I nod my head, a vacant smile on my lips. Every word, every excitable gesture is like another kick in the gut. Jemima will move on, have a family. And what is it that I'll do? Be the lonely old spinster who runs the Inn on the outside of the Woods? I could've been her Princess Charming, but now she'll have her Prince and her fairy-tale ending. And my fairy tale is over.

* * *

"Jemima Ridger, do we have a Jemima Ridger anywhere? Jemima Ridger, you've been selected as the Female tribute of the First Annual Hunger Games: Congraulations"

The 'District Liaison Officer' called out across the Town Square, her nasally voice would've made me flinch. But I'm numb: This wasn't meant to happen. Jemima was never meant to be called, as the proverbial odds were truly in our favour, grasping her hand I try to move towards the back of the people gathered. It's a fruitless endeavour as in a matter of minutes before we're surrounded by Peacekeepers: I open my mouth to object as they pull a sobbing Jemima from my arms. She collapses between the Peacekeepers and begins to scream, the sound so primal and pained that I lurch forward to try and help her.

"My Baby, please…Please. I can't do this, I'm having a baby."

Murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire; some are calling out the Capitol for their barbarism: Demanding a 'redraw' due to her pregnant state. Others were condemning the wailing girl, calling her pathetic and a poor ambassador for the District. I can't even think, I can just hear the echo of Jemima's scream. This isn't right, they can't do this: This whole Hunger Games is a farce.

Jemima's screams grow steadily louder as she is dragged closer to the stage and her inevitable death: This isn't a pageant of strength or honour, its retribution and a glorified bloodbath. My mind is filled with various images of Jemima cowered on the floor while a faceless beast repeatedly hit her with a mace: The mere thought brings bile to my throat, and my reaction is instinctive. I'm pushing through the crowd, Peacekeepers moving forward to stop me.

"STOP! Stop, please…I'll do it. I'll do it instead."

I didn't realise that tears were streaming down my face, and the adrenaline racing through my body prevented me realising the gravity of my decision. But I couldn't regret it, I wouldn't regret it: I was smarter, fitter and less afraid of confrontation than Jemima. I probably had the tiniest chance, but Jemima never would have. My declaration is enough to render the crowds silent: I feel everyone turn their eyes towards me and the Peacekeepers take a step backwards, confused about protocol. Because if we're being honest, I doubt many people would volunteer to enter some twisted death match for their preganant friend.

"You volunteer? Oh my Goodness, this is exciting isn't it? Oh I need to check the protocol… Stop the cameras, actually no: Keep them rolling. This is going to be a first, oh…I'm all of a dither."

Walking closer to the stage, I get my first look at Belinda Belinda: District One's very own Liaison Officer. She waves me onstage enthusiastically, clapping her hands in a manic fashion: You would have thought I'd won a critically acclaimed award rather than offering to die.

If the circumstances were any different I may have laughed at the woman acting as a 'Reaper'. I was aware of the 'eccentric' fashions of the Capitol but Belinda 'Call me BB' Belinda was even more flamboyant than any other Capitolite I had ever seen on TV. Garishly orange hair, skin dyed a pale yellow and a lime green ball gown with a matching parasol and pull along suitcase: She looked like a poorly assembled citrus dessert.

The image became even more absurd when she pulled out a thick volume from the suitcase and a pair of luminous yellow reading glasses, which were bejewelled. Flicking through the book, she makes over exaggerated sounds of understanding and pleasure. Slamming the volume shut, she places the book back into the suitcase. Before turning to the camera with a megawatt smile firmly in place, I'm starting to feel more than awkward with the shambolic organisation of this 'Reaping'.

"Ladies and Gentleman, and children and all of Panem. We are initiating the 'Volunteer Protocol': Moments ago Gemma Ringer was Reaped, but her –friend, or maybe lover or shorter sister. Will we ever know? Well another brave young woman has taken her place. Let's get a round of applause."

BB begins to try and rally some form of applause, and some people indulge her to try and stop her waving her arms like a wild woman. I'm strangely relaxed though, I may have signed my own death warrant but it just didn't seem real while a grown woman was sporadically clapping or winking into the camera. It's almost a relief to know that anything I could have done will be overshadowed by BB's erratic behaviour, until she grabs my arm and pulls me in front of the camera.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the volunteer… So, the thing is: You have not officially volunteered yet. There is a verbal agreement that needs to be made: It just means that you need to repeat what I say. Can you do that? Oh and tell everybody your name: You are almost famous. YAY. Oh and once you've said your name what you have to say is 'I VOUNTEER AS TRIBUTE'… If I were you I would try and make it a little sassy. Cause everyone loves sassy. I do, do you?"

I'm stunned, BB has returned to blowing kisses into the audience and tossing her hair from side to side so wildly that she is at severe risk of whiplash and a camera has been shoved right under my nose. Taking a deep breathe, I look into the camera lens and try to look as dangerous as possible with BB gallivanting in the background.

"I am Rose Francesca Pepperhill of District One, and I VOUNTEER AS TRIBUTE"

* * *

 **PHEW! I hope you liked it, if you did: Leave a review. If you didn't: Also, leave a review.**

 **So basically, the reason the Reapings are shambolic is because it is the first time. Plus Belinda Belinda is a bit vapid (And by a bit, I mean scarily) Not all Reapings, the 4 due in the next chapter mainly and any that will be referenced in the 'Recaps' will probably be a bit more professional (although some of these Escorts have some very weird habits) … So, I did say that 4 other tributes would be featured in this chapter. I lied, so the submitters of those tributes are entitled to PM me and they will be compensated :)**

 **I'm still accepting submissions for the Speeches from your tributes, we have some awesome ones.**

 **People are submitting to the sequel already, and some of the tributes I've gotten so far have been mind-blowing: The form is actually on my Profile (That I actually updated) so go and have fun with that.**

 **ALSO: I have selected your tributes second POV before the Bloodbath, if you want to know just ask me.**

 **Oh, and I have chosen a song that I think represents this story and any stories that will follow it: The Struts- Could Have Been Me.**

 **Yep, any questions about anything? Hit me up, I don't have problems answering them as long as they don't require too many spoilers.**

 **-Nellie**


	9. Chapter 7

**Okay, so this was meant to be a four person POV. But alas, as always I've had to split the chapter again. This is PART ONE, and PART TWO will be with you on Wednesday, I know that I suck: But I am blaming Christmas for this whole fandango. And then New Year… So yep, I've decided that I'm going to simply have chapters with 2/3 POV's until we're in the Capitol: So I can update more frequently. Plus, some of the characters are a little harder than others to imagine: The way that they'd speak and so on.**

 **Whinging over now, here are the tributes for us to meet today.**

 **Didgit Slatter, from the beautiful Wolfie :)**

 **Patrick Weaver, courtesy of the amazing Music Rules The World.**

* * *

 **Didgit Slatter, 18, District Three.**

Pressing Cable's shirt, I chance a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece and grimace: I can hear Pixel moving around in our shared bedroom, but Cable seems to have taken it upon himself to completely ignore my numerous requests to wake up. Stubborn little oaf that he is, deciding to be a little merciful: I slowly count to 10 before I bang the broom against the ceiling of the kitchen. I try not to hit it too hard, the Slatter household is not the most architecturally sound building and it wouldn't surprise me if the ceiling fell through: It's just something else to add to the never ending list of shit I've got to do.

"Cable, you've got to the count of three to drag your ass out of bed. Or else I'm coming up there with a pan of water to give you a bed bath—and Newsflash: The hot water is out again…"

I hear Pixel laughing to herself; lately Cable has been neglecting to remember that I am not only his big sister. I am also the head of this household, and my word is law. Well, not law per say, but I do expect him to actually do something when asked: Like waking up early enough to sit and have a family meal, before this 'Reaping' today.

Or tidying up after him, I don't care to remember how often I've walked through the pig sty that he calls a bedroom and found dirty clothes discarded haphazardly. I don't need to see my younger brother's briefs hanging from a lampshade, and it's something I refuse to see every again.

That was when I decided to implement the 'bring your laundry to me every morning' rule, at first he thought it was an empty threat until I completely stopped doing his laundry: Let it be known that he learnt his lesson one day when he had to go to school wearing some of my old clothes since all of his were dirty. Simply put, Cable's minor episode of cross dressing only lasted as long as his reluctance to abide by the laundry rules.

"One, two…"

I start to hear him grumbling around upstairs and I don't doubt for a moment that he is probably calling me every name under the sun, and imagining a thousand and one ways that he'd like to kill me. Not that he would ever say it aloud, Cable may not be Panem's answer to Einstein but he's not stupid enough to try his luck too much: The threat of a little 'bed bath' is something Cable knows I won't hesitate to carry out.

I'm not the kind of person anybody can walk over, and Cable seems intent on learning that the difficult way: It's his choice, but any little rule he thinks he can break, I can think of some 'negative reinforcement' that is a thousand times worse. Which is a little cruel, admittedly, but I haven't got the time to deal with Cable being a little brat when I have a million and one other things to do: Cooking, cleaning, household repairs, working stupid hours at the Factory and then stepping into the role of 'pseudo parent'. I deserve a bloody award.

"Oh what are we having for breakfast Did—"

"I'm bloody starving"

Pixel and Cable come into the kitchen side by side, while I smile at my younger sister who bounces over and wraps her arms around my waist: I level Cable with a glare, he knows that while 'bloody' isn't profanity, it isn't something that I want Pixel adding to her vocabulary. Cable sighs in resignation when I raise an eyebrow, before shrugging his shoulder and smiling apologetically. Or as apologetically as he ever will: Little brat.

"What was that again Cabe? I'm pretty sure I misheard you"

I catch Pixel smirking out the corner of my eye and nudge her with my hip: She may be the better behaved of the two, most of the time, but she knows that I won't hesitate to discipline her as well if needs be. She gives my waist another squeeze before heading over to the makeshift dining table-cum-ironing board-cum-work station: Cable throws himself into a chair, grumbling to himself.

"Nothing at all Didgit, dearest sister, I was just saying that it smells wonderful and I can't wait to sample your exquisite cuisine"

A patronizing smirk curls at his lips, and I have an overwhelming urge to flip him the bird: But I don't want to be the 'bad example' instead I smile back and silently congratulate him on being able to pull together a sentence of words rather than the monosyllabic grunts that seem to be the universal language of young boys. There must be a vocabulary test at school in the coming weeks. Stirring the simmering pot of oats, I have to admit that the beige concoction is as far from 'exquisite cuisine' as you can get: But it's the best I could pull together for this morning, and he can either love it or shove it.

"Cable, sarcasm detected and subsequently ignored. Although I did hear you offer to do the washing up: You truly are such a helpful young man. I'm currently out of gold stars, so you'll just have to accept my most heartfelt thanks."

A saccharine smile makes its way onto my face, Cable looks affronted for a second: As if he's about to say something, but instead he just scoffs and folds his arms. Nodding my head, I turn back towards the stove: It only takes a few seconds before my siblings are berating one another. The back and forth of Pixel giggling at Cable's predicament, and Cable's outrage at her giggling. A responsible 'parental figure' would probably try and break it up, but hey: Sibling rivalry isn't always a bad thing. The little 'dispute' escalates, and Cable decides to call Pixel a word that warrants a mouthful of washing detergent.

I was never the most patient of people, but with all this Hunger Games bullshit: My already fractured patience has progressed to a full break. Wiping my hands on my trousers: Andromeda, Antila, Apus, Aquarius… Trying to recite the constellations in alphabetical order usually calms me, but not today. Rounding on my siblings-cum-wards, they fall silent. Good to know that they're both able to realise when they've pushed it too far.

"I swear to God—"

"Slatter family, have no fear: Addison is here."

The vocal annihilation of my siblings is disrupted, and I'm a little irked: It's been far too long since I've been able to tear someone to pieces with my words, but I suppose Addison's unexpected arrival is a blessing in disguise. Not very 'parental' of me to scream at my siblings: Addison on the other hand is fair game.

"If you've come for A) A favour or B) to complete your daily duty of annoying me, then take a ticket and get in line. I've got enough sh-stuff to be dealing with, without having to deal with you: So sit down and shut up, or please: Make yourself scarce."

He looks shocked for a moment, before laughing aloud and strolling into 'my' house and depositing a bag of groceries onto the table. I would tell him to take that bag of groceries and shove them up his ass, but I'm not that petty and help even if unwanted is most definitely appreciated. And in all honesty, I'm basically salivating at the scent of fresh bread. Cable and Pixel are drawn to Addison like moths to a flame, and within seconds: The tense atmosphere dissolved and everyone was too busy stuffing themselves with honey slathered on the sourdough loaf, my momentary 'explosion' forgotten.

"Now that we've eaten and Didg doesn't look like she wants to kill us, I was wondering what you guys were up to after this Reaping thing?"

My whole body becomes rigid at the mention of the Reaping; personally I'm not too worried if my name is called: But Cable turned 12 a few weeks ago and is therefore eligible to be dragged to the Capitol and compete in this gladiatorial blood sport. Addison has asked us the question as a family, but we're all aware that it's me that he's asking. Standing up and beginning to clear the table, I spot Pixel and Cable watching me with expectant expressions on their faces.

"Cabe, Pix: You two need to go and get ready, you can complete your chores later."

They look as if they're about to protest, always wanting to be 'Mini-Adults' and participate in discussions. Clearing my throat, I raise both my eyebrows as if to remind them that I hadn't asked for them to go and get ready, I had told them. Reluctantly they leave the room, not without Cable muttering a string of random profanity to show his dislike of being excluded.

"Wow Didg, you make my mother look like an amateur. You really know how to crack the whip don't you?"

I roll my eyes at Addison's inclination to turn anything into some kind of joke. It can be a major pain in my ass, but it helps keep the atmosphere from growing too tense at times: Now is not one of those times. Handing him a glass of water, I sit and give him a look that he is all too familiar with. The Didgit Slatter 'This is NOT the time to be messing around' look and he takes notice: Sitting up straighter in his chair, he gestures for me to speak.

"Addison, you've been a great friend. A pain in the ass, yes, but you've been my fucking rock over these last few months: And if I had any other choice, I wouldn't dream of doing this. But Cab—"

He cuts me off by holding his hand up, pulling a small bag of sugared almonds from his jacket pocket he slides one across the table: An uncharacteristically serious expression sharpening his features. As he pops a piece of candy into his mouth, I open my mouth to continue what I was saying but Addison shakes his head and motions for me to eat an almond. Savouring the sweet taste I can't help a sigh of contentment escaping my lips, and I spot Addison smirking at my reaction before clearing his throat.

"Now Didg, I don't even need you to finish that sentence. I've looked over the 'rule book' of this Hunger Games fuckery, and there's something called the 'Volunteer Clause'- when an eligible person of the same gender can volunteer to become tribute. If, and I hope to God it doesn't happen, Cable is called: I'll volunteer. It's what Raymer would've wanted, it's what Old Cordina is expected and let's be honest: Whatever could happen in those Hunger Games is nothing worse than what you would do to me if I didn't save Cabe if I had the chance."

Relief, sadness, and disbelief, joy: A cocktail of emotions fills me like air fills a balloon. I don't doubt Addison's sincerity for a moment; throughout the Rebellion he was always there to hold me up when I was seconds away from collapsing: I didn't even need to ask. Addison has always been the one who would do anything for me, Cable and Pixel. Part of our pseudo family, since the Rebellion failed and both of our families suffered loss and despair. A genuine smile appearing on my face,I'm not naïve enough to have not noticed the looks of longing he casts in my direction. If the circumstances were different: If I wasn't living in constant fear, plagued by heinous nightmares and trying to raise my siblings to the best of my ability. There is no doubt, I could have fallen in love with Addison Montgomery, reaching across the table I take his calloused hand into my own: My thumb tracing circles on the palm of his hand.

"Thank you Addison, thank you so much—"

* * *

Crux, Cygnus, Delphinus, Dorado… For the second time today, my renowned habit of naming constellations has done very little to dispel the flurry of emotions that are threatening to overwhelm me in quick succession. Relief that it was my name called, and that neither Cable nor Addison will have to go through this: Fear, not for my life, but what could happen in my absence. There are a million questions jostling for position at the forefront of my mind, and I know that most of these questions will go unanswered, either until I die within that arena or I overcome the odds and return as Victor. I have to try, that much is obvious: But could I really be the 1 of 24 who manages to emerge as a Survivor of the Capitol's barbaric punishment.

My endless musing is disturbed by a knock at the door, the hollow thud pulling me back into reality. A place that I would rather be avoiding right now, but that isn't practical: I need to have my focus solely fixed on the game if I plan on winning, I can't afford for my attention to be on anything other than the unknown abyss I have found myself plummeting into. Ignoring the luxurious surroundings of the Justice Building, I pull open the door and almost cry in relief when I find myself face to face with Addison, a look of confusion in his eyes.

As soon as he sees me, he pulls me into his arms and begins to whisper sweet nothings into my ears. I'm tempted to break down, and start crying: It's a rational response to the position I've found myself in, but I won't give the Capitol the pleasure of being responsible for making Didgit Slatter crack. So as always, I take a deep breathe: My resolve hardening like aluminium and I push Addison to arm's length.

"There's no time for sentimental bullshit, Addison, I asked to see you alone first because I need your help: I know you've already done so much for me and my family—I know that Cordina would help, but she's old and they're watching her: She's a little too outspoken with her Anti-Capitol philosophies. It has to be you Addison, do you understand?"

I'm almost shouting, my voice trembling as despair and desperation blend into one, Addison simply nods his head. I know that there is a lot that he wants to say, but he can't: He has never hidden his affection for me, and I know that it must hurt him to realise that there is a distinct possibility that I'm going to be brutally murdered in a matter of days, rather than words I pull him into my arms and press a chaste kiss against his cheek: Positioning my lips against his ear I hear a broken sob.

"You have to take them Addison, don't let them go to the community home. There are a few little trinkets: Mother's engagement and wedding rings, some blueprints my father was working on. You should be able to make a bit of money from selling them. Don't you dare let them get involved with a rebel movement. You think its mere coincidence that a Slatter and a Kane were the two chosen: Prolific families in the Rebel Movement? Cut all ties with the Rebels, keep your head down and maybe Cable and Pixel will be spared in the future. If I die, that should placate them: The Capitol I mean. Just do what you can to keep them safe, promise me Addison: This is the last thing I'll ever ask of you."

Without warning Addison is pulled away, four Peacekeepers entering the room. I back into the lavish desk: Mouth wide with horror. Addison's expression mirroring my own: Shock and fear warring for dominance. I want to scream, demand an explanation: As I rush forwards to try and help, a gun is pointed towards me and Addison screams and slumps forward: His breathing ragged as blood begins to pool beneath him. I'm unconcerned with the gun in my face as I push forward to try and help my friend. I try to check his pulse when I'm pulled back, kicking and screaming.

"Miss Slatter, you're coming with us."

The monotonous voice is the last thing I hear, before I feel a sharp sting in my neck. The world seems to swim before me, the sharpness of reality becoming indistinct blurs as whatever they've drugged me with begins to take effect: The feeling could be likened to being wrapped in cotton wool. Almost comfortable as my consciousness fades into nonexistence, but even the chemical solution can't suppress the chilling realisation that is the last coherent thought that passes through my mind: He never promised. He never got the chance to promise.

* * *

 **Patrick Weaver, 18, District Eight.**

"Do I look pretty Patch?"

Parker performs an elaborate pirouette as part of her makeshift 'runway presentation', I can't help but smile and nod my head enthusiastically: Her joy is infectious and it doesn't take long for me to begun strutting the length of the lounge as if I were a model. It only takes a few moments before we're both laughing as our posing and strutting becomes even more exaggerated and ludicrous. Parker continues to strut around; our parents were both expected to work until about an hour before the Reaping: So until then, it is officially 'Sibling Bonding' time. Which, I'm not ashamed to admit: Is my favourite kind of time.

"Do you look pretty? Of course you do: You're Parker Weaver, and I am Patrick Weaver…Models extraordinaire."

I punctuate my proclamation with an elaborate bow, and Parker dissolves into raucous giggles. Pulling her close, I run my fingers through her dark hair and pull a new lilac ribbon from up my sleeve: Parker just gasps before clapping enthusiastically, as happy as always for me to shower her with the little trinkets I 'come across' down in the town. Pulling her hair into a simple braid I tie the ribbon before carrying Parker over to the mirror: Parker leans forwards to look at how I'd fashioned her hair, a thankful smile highlighting her delicate features.

"I don't know how you do it Patch, you found me this dress and you found me a ribbon to match. I don't know what I'd do without you as my big brother"

Her words make my heart skip a beat for two reasons: One, all I've ever been able to do well is be Parker's big brother. And two, there is only so much longer that Parker's childish ignorance will allow her to believe that I'm the male reincarnation of 'Lady Luck' who somehow manages to find dresses in her size, and the matching ribbons. I don't want to think of how Parker will react when she realises that my 'sticky fingers' are the reason that she is often the recipient of new dresses and other little trinkets: Will she think me nothing more than a common thief? Or will she realise that, as bad as it sounds, I've only ever taken things to keep her smiling in a world where there is very little to smile about.

"Oh I don't know Park, maybe I'm just really lucky: But I think that you can find anything, if you know the right places to look."

Nodding my head sagely as if I'd divulged some great piece of wisdom rather than just spinning a pretty lie, I can't help but chuckle as Parker mimics the motion. Placing Parker on the ground she continues to fawn over the dress I gifted to her a few days ago: The lilac dress seems to shimmer in the light, the satin must have been the best quality and I do feel a little 'bad' when I think about the 'Girl from the Boutique'. But any guilt associated with my tendency to take things that don't belong to me. Or the potential economic repercussions it may have had for the girl with the copper hair and her family were eclipsed by the look on Parker's face when I handed her the pastel coloured dress: Amazement, joy, disbelief, gratitude.

"Patch, do you know who I think I look like?"

Her hands resting on her hips, she looks at me with an air of expectance. Rubbing my chin thoughtfully, I circle her appraising her from every angle: I'm truly clueless, but I know enough to realise that it must be one of the characters from the Fairy Tales she insists I read to her. I begin to name various characters: Snow White, Cinderella, Thumbelina, Princess Aurora and the other female characters; but each time she becomes more exasperated and shakes her head. I can't help but smile while she becomes steadily more and more frustrated. Eventually she begins to wave her arms and pull funny faces, by scrunching up her features and sticking her tongue out.

"OHHHH, you're Tinkerbelle?"

I place my hand against my chest, feigned shock evident on my features. Parker nods her head with surprising enthusiasm before prancing around the living room like a 'fairy' and I join her in one of our favourite roleplay games. 'Peter Patch and Parkerbelle', when the dreary textile District vanishes: And we're in Neverland, running around with the Lost Boys, soaring through the skies after the dash of pixie dust: Captain Hook tries, in vain, to capture the unstoppable Weaver duo. It's childish, but while I'm physically on the cusp of manhood, there's nothing better than indulging my inner child: It helps us forget that maybe the world isn't all sunshine and rainbows, but that doesn't mean we can't make our own.

"Patrick, you're like the real life Peter Pan- you'll never grow up."

If only that were the case, Parker is young enough to have been sheltered from the War. The tales I'd spun of another failed attempt on Captain Hook's part to capture Peter Pan and his fairy friend masked the chilling reality of airstrikes and hostile takeovers, raids and death: But I wasn't lucky enough to believe the tales. I was there when my father would return from the medical centre, his clothes stained with innocent blood. I was there when people would be absent from school, rumours that it was their families that has incurred the Peacekeeper's wrath. I was there when numerous bodies were piled into mass graves, disfigured beyond recognition by the chemical weaponry the Capitol has utilized.

Parker takes a hold of my hand, providing a silent comfort even though she doesn't understand whatever is plaguing my thoughts. And I realise that I'm being a little selfish, my thoughts had taken a downward turn and the previously playful atmosphere had soured: Reaping or no Reaping, today is about keeping a smile on Parker's face in case the unthinkable happens and she's thrown into the Arena.

I'm powerless to do anything if it is her name called, but God forbid I don't make her last day the best she can remember. Jumping from my place on our threadbare sofa, I engage in a thrilling swordfight with the 'dastardly' Captain Hook, as I parry blow after blow the solemnity that has blanketed the Weaver household evaporates and Parker jumps to her feet screaming encouragement as I battle the pirate.

"You know, I never thought I could be a Peter Pan: But I have a Tinkerbelle, so I must be. And you know what Peter Pan and Tinkerbelle like to eat? Peanut Butter."

I pull an unopened jar of peanut butter from my satchel, courtesy of the Confectionary Shop and my own five finger discount, and Parker claps her hands enthusiastically before running to get us some spoons from the kitchenette. As we lie on the lounge floor stuffing ourselves with peanut butter and the finest sweets that District Eight has to offer, we make up numerous stories about our neighbours: Like the batty old lady from across the road, Betsey Johnson, who Parker is adamant practices black magic and lures unsuspecting children into her house similarly to the witch from Hansel and Gretel.

* * *

"Issy Jansingh, is there an Issy Jansingh anywhere? You've been selected as District Eight's female tribute in the first Annual Hunger Games, could you make your way onstage?"

The District Liaison Officer, Greta Goodie, called out the name of the girl who would be sent to fight in the Arena: And while it is tragic that this girl is more than likely going to be slaughtered for nothing more than entertainment, I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Parker had been spared; she wasn't being thrown into the Arena. There was a small commotion from the area designated for the seventeen year old girls: Before a girl stepped out into the walkway which separates the male and female tributes and heads towards the stage: I pause for a second, something about the girl seems familiar. Stepping around the boy ahead of me, I spot the copper coloured hair that seems to shine in the sunlight and the burgundy eyes glimmering with mirth. It's her, 'Shop Girl'.

"I know that it sounds like it should be pronounced Is-he, but it's actually pronounce Iz-hey. You know, for future reference."

Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she walks through the Town Square as if she doesn't have a care in the world. A contagious smile on her face as she waves to various people, stopping to shake their hands and compliment them on what they're wearing: It's absurd, you'd have thought that she was walking onstage to collect a Grand Raffle prize rather than to participate in some twisted game of life and death. It's so ridiculous that I can't help but chuckle at her whimsical reaction, and it seems that a fair few people feel similarly as a spattering of laughter can be heard from all around the Town Square: The only place in Eight large enough to host the Reaping.

I can't help but smile as she curtseys at the applause and laughter prompted by her 'strange' reaction to being Reaped. A second later, I'm questioning myself: Why is she smiling while any other rational person would probably have broken down by now? Is she a Psychopath, who is genuinely pleased at the idea of killing other teenagers? She didn't seem the type, but you know what they say: Never judge a book by its cover. Could she be a little simple? Not understanding the gravity of what is happening? Or could it be some kind of elaborate strategy?

Walking onstage she shakes the hand of the Mayor, and other delegates who had been seated onstage: She exchanged air kisses with Greta, complimenting her attire before turning to face the crowd. Her smile remaining firmly in place, it's a little discomforting imagining her being killed in the Arena: She seems too sweet and unaware to have been put in this position. While Greta is congratulating Issy on her enthusiasm for being named a tribute, Issy is blowing kisses to the camera and winking: Shit, she's not stupid.

She's already playing the Game: The vapid thing, the feigned enthusiasm. It's a ploy; she's trying to get the Capitol onside before even arriving in the Capitol. Devious, but a lot more intelligent than I had originally thought 'Shop Girl', or Issy I suppose, was. Greta is still fawning over Issy when she is prompted by the Mayor to select the male tribute.

Greta begins to apologise profusely and begins to muse if the male counterpart of the girl currently sat on the Mayor's lap and gesturing wildly with her hands, the cameraman has to be told to film Greta as she heads over to the large class ball. There is a collective intake of breath as she pulls a single slip of paper from the bowl, my heart hammering against my ribcage as I silently pray that she'll call any name but mine. Fingers crossed, I'm making promise after promise to a God I don't even know I believe in: I'll stop stealing, I'll volunteer at charitable organisations. Just don't make me go into the Hunger Games.

"And the lucky male who'll be the tribute, alongside Miss Jansingh, is … Patrick Weaver"

And that's when I decide I don't believe in God. It's like time freezes for a second, and I see every pair of eyes in the immediate vicinity drawn to me like I'm a freaking magnet. Then I hear it, a scream: Shrill and a sound I could pick up even though it's only ever featured in my most fearsome nightmares. Parker continues to scream, and I'm pushing through the crowds. Rather than heading towards the stage, I'm running towards my sister's screams but before I can get to her, the Peacekeepers intercede and catch hold of both my arms.

"It's alright Parker, I'll be fine…I promise sis, I promise."

As I'm thrown onstage, I continue calling out empty promises towards Parker and I can't stop tears from falling. I see the Peacekeepers directing my parents to where Parker has dropped to the ground, hysterical. I pull myself to my feet, my legs shaking profusely. Greta heads over and puts what I think is meant to be a comforting hand on my shoulder, but the gesture means nothing: Pulling myself away from the Capitolite I go and stand beside Issy. Her smile in place, but her eyes are now full of sympathy: Without warning she pulls me into a hug.

"Don't cry, not yet: Everyone is watching and you don't want them to think you're weak. The Hunger Games started as soon as our names were called. They didn't have the cameras on you when you were dragged onstage, just make sure you look strong now. By the way, your sister looked gorgeous in the dress: I wouldn't have reported you to the Peacekeepers you know?"

I'm amazed, my suspicions were confirmed: She was already putting together a plan on how she was going to try and win these Games. And I realised that she was right, I won't be seen as some weakling that the other tributes could see as easy pickings. I've been forced into this, but I'm going to try my hardest to ensure that I'm the one coming home. Squaring out across the Town Square, I stand up straight and try to appear as expressionless.

"Now allow me to introduce the District Eight Tributes for the first Annual Hunger Games: Issy Jansingh and Patrick Weaver, you may now shake hands."

Facing one another, I hold out my hand and shake hers. I'm surprised at the firmness of her grip, and can't help but try to smile when she winks flirtatiously. From that point, everything gets a bit manic as Greta directs us towards the Justice Building and continues to ramble on about how lucky we are: We will see the Capitol, enjoy all the luxuries that it has to offer and have the chance to compete for eternal glory. Sounds nice, but if I'm being honest I'd prefer to stay here in District Eight: Jumping around the lounge with Parker, playing in Neverland.

Shortly afterwards Issy and I are directed down a corridor and told that our visitors, if we have any, will be arriving shortly. I take a second to stare at the girl, with her pale skin and infectious smile: She's not a killer. How is she meant to survive? How can she be so optimistic? Should I try and comfort her? Does she even need comfort? She seems totally unaffected by the series of events. I want to ask her what her angle is, why she's not falling to pieces: Is she scared? Before I can open my mouth and ask however she beats me to the punch.

"My sister gets that look on her face quite often, Lost Boy, when I don't 'react' the way I'm supposed to. But let me tell you this: I plan on fake smiling my way through this whole thing."

Is she psychic? I just stare after her as she walks towards the room allocated to her and her visitors: Flipping her hair nonchalantly before grasping the door handle she turns back to me and blows a kiss before disappearing inside the room. That's great, I have a District Partner who may or may not be a little insane. Lost Boy, where did that come from? My father once told me that women were the most complicated creatures on the planet and I thought he was lying, but after meeting Issy Jansingh: I'm starting to doubt that.

"If I'm a Lost Boy, then she's Little Miss freaking Sunshine."

* * *

 **Okay guys, two more tributes: I obviously love both… But let me know what you think.**

 **I have decided on a winner for last chapter's little competition, and there are two people who impressed me with their speeches and can both request a short one-shot for 'Reaping The Rewards' (Although none of the one-shots will be published until all tributes have been introduced) These people are : Music Rules The World and We're All Okay.**

 **This chapter's little challenge is one that will help me, and you: I want you to think of one mutt or a trap that could be the Arena. The Arena? I hear you ask… Is 'The Dollhouse' but I've been watching a lot of classic horror films for inspiration: 'The Shining' and so on.**

 **Now some announcements, I'm updating Wednesday (Faron and Elek definitely, and hopefully a couple more) …**

 **Make sure you go and submit to IVolunteerAsAuthor's new SYOT: My little creation, Dior Oberlin, will be running rampant in that story and it is a guaranteed good read: He also updates like every day… It's unreal.**

 **I'm still accepting submissions for my sequel, and will be doing so until the end of February: I've had a lot of great ones, but mainly for the Career slots… Please show some love to the Outer Districts, and I recommend on probably submitting more than one tribute to better your chances of getting a place.**

 **I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, and a banging New Year.**

 **Lots of love,**

 **Nellie :)**

 **xoxo**


	10. Chapter 8

**It's been a while,apologies. But returning to education, helping a friend with some familial issues and so on… I kind of forgot. And anyone who I'm meant to have reviewed: I WILL review as soon as this is out :)**

 **AND YOU GUYS GOT ME TO 100 REVIEWS… I SERIOUSLY LOVE YOU GUYS. Let's continue to keep these reviews coming: I love to read your thoughts and all that jazz.**

 **Please welcome to the stage:**

 **Faron Jennings, brought to us by the wonderful FlawlessCatastrophe**

 **Elek Cordova, the brainchild of the amazing Wolvesareawesome13**

* * *

 **Faron Jennings, 13, District Nine.**

I'm pissed; listing the reasons why would take too long. I'm just constantly pissed off, but if you had to walk a mile in my shoes: You'd pretty much be the same. Peeling the flesh from the apple with my teeth I feel the insane urge to open the window and throw it at the 'Pussy Patrol' loitering around outside my house. Pushing their luck if they ask me, I'd have no problem going out there and knocking them all into the next week but I really haven't got the time or the energy to deal with 'them'.

The kids from school, complete and utter wankstains if you ask me: Utter idiots who have nothing better to do with their time than talk utter bullshit. It used to be that whole who likes who crap, but since the whole 'Hunger Games Announcement' they've gotten ten times worse: 'It'll be me, they'll pick me'. Seriously, how self-obsessed can they get? They all think they're going to be murdered in their sleep or something,

God forbid any of those bastards actually have a brain. We're not going to be whisked off to the Hunger Games, we're thirteen. Now, I've never professed to be the brightest crayon in the District Nine box but we're too young to be picked: We have few too slips in the lottery. Then there are only two people picked from the whole group of those eligible: Mark my words, there will be two eighteen year olds picked and then shipped off to the Capitol.

Kind of pathetic really, how the sad bastards my age just like to whine about how 'this could happen to me…'or something else about their favourite subject, themselves. It's all about them, involving them or somehow related to them on some fucked up unconscious level. Little bitches think that everything is about them: It's pathetic, and one of the main reasons that I can't stand any of these little fuckers. Trust me, I'd rather talk to a wall than any of these bitches.

"Faron, have you finished your breakfast? Would you like anything else? I could put some tea on the stove if you'd like."

I have to roll my eyes, God forbid I have any peace without my Father popping up like a freaking Personal Peacekeeper. If we weren't poor I would put money that he's probably put a tracker in me or something, I bet none of the 'Pussy Patrol' have a Father who constantly fawns over them: You'd think I didn't know wipe my own ass. I'm sick and tired and telling him that I'm not a fucking child.

I swear, ever since Mom left he's become my fucking shadow. I can't as much as fart without him knowing about it, the way he acts: You'd think I was his step in wife rather than his bloody son. Scoffing to myself, I can imagine him now trying to dress me up in some God awful dress and sending me off to learn about needlework or whatever shit it is that 'well behaved wives' get up to.

"Faron why are you ignoring me?"

Why is it that this man is always whining like a little bitch? My mother may be a complete twat, no doubt about that fact, but she might've had the right idea when it came ditching my fuckwit of a father. Unfortunately I was deprived of that choice- that good for nothing whore didn't want me, too busy spreading her legs for anything with a dick I presume. And I'd rather deal with Reyan, the human equivalent of superglue, than be shipped off to the shithole Community Home.

"I'm not ignoring you Dad…I'm just thinking…"

Thinking about how much of a complete pansy he is, but I don't need to say that. I just shrug my shoulders; I don't even need to look at him to know that he's probably got tears in his eyes. I swear the man spontaneously bursts into tears more than I change my fucking socks. Sometimes I'm confused as to whether he knows that he's meant to be the 'Dad'.

You know, teaching me about chatting to the ladies or about working down in the fields. Instead, his wife left him and he's one of those simpering idiots who work overtime so I don't have to do anything other than the 'Basic Working Programme'. If he had the option, he'd lock me in the bloody house and wrap me in cotton wool. I know that he's waiting for me to elaborate, but I just let the silence stretch on until it steps into awkward territory: Maybe now he'll piss off and leave me alone.

"Oh, well I'll leave you to your thoughts then. I've pressed your shirt and trousers, are you going to head to the Town Square with friends? Or would you like me to accompany you?"

The mere thought makes me blanche, one I don't have any friends because most of the kids my age are complete tools and the others are pussies. And what kind of idiot is he? I'd look like a fucking idiot and half if I showed up with my Dad: He'd probably hold my hand or try and hug me. Honestly, it's like choosing between a slow acting poison or a twisted game of Russian Roulette: Neither is what anyone would call an attractive option and that makes me snap a little.

"I can go on my own Dad, I'm not a freaking child-How many times have I told you that? I'm perfectly capable of walking to the Square alone. And friends? Have you seen the kids my age? They're all fucking morons."

See, most people at this moment would wish they could swallow their words. Not me. Because while most parents would go completely ballistic and rip their kids a new asshole for swearing, I can't help but be a little smug because that's not how things work in the Jennings household. Reyan Jennings is one of those 'nurture with love' types. I can't help but tune out as he begins his usual speech about respecting others, I've heard it so many times that I can recite the bullshit backwards. The fact remains that these people have done fuck all for me to respect them, and as the saying goes: 'Respect is earned, not given'.

Father continues, in vain, to try and lecture me. Rather than arguing with him, I school my features into a remorseful expression: Well I try to anyhow. Because arguing with my father is pretty futile. He either cries or tries to hug me, or thinks he's some kind of therapist and diagnose my 'abrasive demeanour' as some by-product of my mother leaving. He thinks it comes from insecurity from my mother abandoning me or something.

It's complete fuckery if you ask me, I'm 'abrasive' because I don't stand for people's shit. And if we're getting all psychological up in this joint, then someone needs to take a look at Father Dearest: He's projecting his insecurities onto me because he can't accept that Mom has gone and shacked up with someone, or multiple someone's if the rumours are true. Rather than whining about it, he just needs to build a bridge and get over it.

"Faron, Son, are you listening to me?"

Shit, shit, shit. Turning to my father, I bite my lip and nod my head so enthusiastically I'm surprised I haven't given myself whiplash. Small blessings, really. Arranging my features into the patented 'I'm sorry' look and the battle is soon won when I saw my father physically deflate and smile sadly. Rushing over he pulls me into a hug, I decide to indulge him this one time, because if I do then the sooner he will piss off and leave me alone.

"I'm sorry Daddy, I was just thinking that maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just pushing every one away, be-because M-Mo-om ll-eft us."

Maybe the fake crying is laying it on a little thick, but as soon as I hear his intake of breath I know that I have hit the jackpot. My father busies himself with blubbering out useless apologies until he's at the point where he is about to cry, predictable really. As soon as he starts sobbing he makes a speedy exit, but not before saying that he'll leave me a few coins to grab some sweets on the way to the Reaping. He might be useless about 97% of the time, but he does have his uses. Taking a quick glance at the clock I roll my eyes, and on that note: It's time to get ready for this Reaping bullshit.

* * *

I'm dressed as the biggest idiot in the whole District, no question about it: But I decided to appease my father by wearing his old three piece suit. It's 'sentimental' according to him, and he's got some strange fucking idea that it will be lucky. I didn't feel the need to remind him that he wore this suit to his wedding, but that didn't end too well now did it? I mean what kind of thirteen year old wears a fucking three piece suit? None, that's the answer you're looking for.

I can hear some of the kids behind me sniggering, dressed in their casual slacks and button down shirts, but they won't say a thing. Because they know not to say jack shit unless they want me to punch them so hard in their teeth, they end up biting their own pancreas'. Knowing that they're too scared to say anything is pretty gratifying, they're nothing but little pussies.

So rather than thinking about what these fuckers think, I'm sucking on a sherbet lemon while some dumbass Capitol bitch is raving on about the Hunger Games. Her name is Drusilla, or something equally horrific: I really don't give two fucks about honour, strength or valour. All I know is that she needs to wrap this shit up quickly and pick which two poor fuckers are going to die, because this suit is starting to get uncomfortable and this ugly fucker stood next to me stinks to high Heaven.

"And the female representative for District 9, and playing the role of your tribute is …Wait for it, wait for it: Millet Rye"

Everyone starts whispering amongst themselves, I ignore them but the name does sound familiar. Craning my neck, I try and catch a glimpse of the poor bitch but there's some lanky fucker blocking my view. Sending a well-placed elbow to the bastard's ribs, he hunches over in pain and I spot the 'Tribute'. Auburn hair and the intense brown eyes, the intensity practically radiating from the young woman: Muscular arms and arms littered with numerous scars.

Millet Rye, the girl who works as a supervisor on the grain fields. She's a fucking badass, back during the War she'd be the first one on the front line fighting the Capitol's mutts: I've seen her swinging a scythe around, and she's lethal. Damn, maybe she won't die: She's pretty much a Legend here in District Nine; they call her 'The Harvest Guardian'. Chancing a glance back towards the eighteen year old males, I can't help but pity the poor fucker: They've got no chance.

Popping another sherbet lemon into my mouth, I can't help my face scrunching up as the first wave of sourness hits. Drusilla, or whatever the dumb bitches name is, is ranting on about District honour and fawning all over Millet: Maybe I could hook her up with my father. I hear a few disgruntles murmurs around me, 'What're we going to do without Millet?' I mean, yeah it does suck that she's getting shipped off to the Capitol but she's barely irreplaceable: Give some other fucker a scythe and they can fight the mutts.

Drusilla is making a grand show of strolling over to the glass bowl on the right side of the stage; I can't help but silently pray she falls over or something. The useless bitch, she's a bit of a twat really picking up slips of paper and dropping them back into the bowl: I look at my wrist before I realise I don't actually own a watch. Finally she pulls a single slip of paper, and waves it in the air like she's won the fucking lottery. As she walks, stupidly slowly to create 'tension' I suppose, towards the microphone I can't help but hope she calls Wheaton Scorsese's name: He's a right toss pot, and I wouldn't mind watching him get his head chopped off or something.

"And the moment it here, to discover the identity of the male Tribute in the first Annual Hunger Games. A Tribute who will represent your lowly District in a pageant of honour and virtue. The moment is here, and without further ado: I, Drusilla Leyshon, am proud to announce that your male Tribute is none other than:… Now wait for it… Faron Jennings."

Bitch say what? Faron Jennings, but that's my fucking name. Is that green haired bitch a fucking idiot, she was meant to pick an 18 year olds name. Looking back at the 18 year olds I'm waiting for one of them to come out, I mean Faron Jennings is a pretty common name right? Sticking my hands into my pocket, I start to edge backwards slowly: I mean, they'll sort this shit out whether or not I'm here. People are turning to look at me and I just flip them the bird, what the fuck are they looking at? I continue to edge backwards until I hit something solid. Turning, I come face to face with the 'Pussy Patrol'. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"Where are you going Faron? The nice lady called your name, you're meant to be on stage: You're the 'lucky' tribute for the Hunger Games. Good luck, you're going to need it."

I don't know who this bitch is, literally: All I can tell you is that she's got hair the colour of shit and a face that looks like it's been bashed repeatedly with a frying pan. But she needs to shut her mouth, and she needs to shut her mouth now. She opens her mouth again, and before she can say a word I've smashed my forearm into her face. Yeah, you maybe shouldn't hit women but she looks like a fucking man anyways. Before anyone can do anything, I'm running. They can fuck off if they think they're sending me off to die at the Capitol.

"HE'S THERE! HE'S THERE!...SOMEONE CATCH HIM. SOMEONE CALL THE PEACEKEEPERS…THE KID IN THE SUIT"

Fucking suit, he thought it'd bring me luck. Father dearest has well and truly fucked me over, whether or not he meant it. Seriously will these people move? It's like they're being difficult. I don't know how many people I've elbowed in the balls but they're obviously not learning to get the fuck out of my way. My heart is hammering against my ribcage as I push through to the walkway, and I shit myself when I see six Peacekeepers heading towards me.

"Guys, this is a misunderstanding. I'm not your tribute, I've changed my name to Farin Jeniah. What are you doing? Get the fuck off me, you little waste man."

Fuckity fuck fuck, they're dragging me towards the stage. And that's when I start to scream: One second I'm spewing a stream of profanity that would make the Devil himself blush, and the next I'm screaming for my Father. The useless shit is probably too busy having a breakdown. I'm thrown onstage and Bogey Hair Drusilla is all over me like a fly on shit, pulling me to my feet and trying to brush the lapels of this damn suit. Slapping her hand away I push her over, and I can't help but laugh when she hits the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"Fuck you, you bitch. You were meant to call an 18 year olds name you silly fucker. Didn't you get the memo? And as for all you fuckers, you can all go and fuck yourselves."

Thinking they can throw me to the wolves, the bastards. I'd probably stay and cuss them all out, but being stood next to Millet I feel like a dwarf: I'm fucked. Literally, I'm 100% fucked. I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and that's just fucking great: I'll look like a right twat. I flip the bird to the audience and the cameras before turning my back to them all. You'd be damned if any one of them is going to see Faron Jennings cry for the first time in years.

* * *

 **Elek Cordova, 15, District Ten.**

"Give me an E, give me an L, give me an E and give me a K. Now, give me a C, give me an O, give me an R, give me a D, give me an O… One second, I need to check the slip again: Oh yeah. Give me a V and give me an A. What does that spell? E-L-E-K C-O-R-D-O-V-A. Elek Cordova is District Ten's male Tribute for the Hunger Games. Give him a round of applause and some of that District Ten cheer."

This is a dream. Of all the names, she had to pick mine. Am I cursed? Is there some deity in the sky that sits there and thinks 'What else could I do to try and push Elek Cordova over the edge?' I've had more than enough adversity to deal with in my lifetime, even more than most of District Ten, and now this demented Capitol cheerleader is telling me that I've got to go to the Capitol and try to kill 23 other kids.

"Elek Cordova, let's hear it for Cordova…Whooooop Whooop. Let's give him some encouragement in case he's a little nervy guys. Show him that District 10 has got the 'spirit', Share the spirit with Elek."

Is she meant to be a shitty cheerleader, or some very bad motivational speaker? I'm pissed, as in I'm seconds away from completely snapping and punching the first Peacekeeper I come across. There's a smattering of applause throughout the crowds gathered, but I'm hardly brimming with District Ten 'spirit' right now. Walking through the crowds, I spot some Peacekeepers heading my way and knowing that my death is likely waiting around the corner I can't help but think 'fuck it' and flip them the bird.

Walking onstage, I get my first 'up close' view of the 'radiant' Kandy Ho. Personally, I think she looks more radioactive than radiant with her fluorescent pink skin and canary yellow irises. Without the weird 'mods' as the Capitol call them, she'd probably be pretty: Even with the skimpy cheerleader outfit and indigo lipstick. But the look of glee on her face as I finally drag myself onstage, shaking off my Peacekeeper 'escort', fills me with nothing but disgust. She loves it, the whole Capitol is probably waiting with bated breath for when 24 kids are thrown into some Arena and made to kill one another. Twisted bastards, all of them are nothing but twisted bastards.

Kandy continues, in vain, to rouse some enthusiasm amongst the District Ten population. I'm just feeling overwhelmed, pissed off and anxious, and it doesn't help when a camera is being repeatedly thrust in my face. How am I meant to be reacting? Am I meant to be waving to the crowds and blowing kisses into the camera as if this is the chance of a lifetime? Fat chance of that happening, the whole thing is wrong. It's immoral and downright disgusting and I can feel my upper lip curling into a vicious sneer as yet another camera is forced well inside what I consider to be my personal boundaries. I want them to see my disgust; I want them to know that I hate each and every one of them.

"Guys, guys… You all know that I would looooove nothing more than staying here all day. But we're on a tight schedule, almost as tight as my 'uniform', get it? Because my cheerleader uniform is really tight, it was a joke. Now, so let's hear it for your tributes: Dai Ronilker and Elek Cordova"

While Kandy is parading across the stage performing a series of twirls and high kicks that make her look even more ridiculous than she's already made herself look, I chance a glance at my 'District Partner'. I can't help but pity the girl, she's tiny with shoddily cut black hair and wide blue eyes: If the wind were to blow too hard, she'd probably be blown away. I doubt that I'll be the biggest or baddest tribute in these Games, but if they're all built like Dai then I have a solid chance. The small girl glances across at me, her wide eyes glimmering with something I can't place and I try to smile reassuringly but all I can muster is an unimpressed grimace as Kandy Ho dances across my eye line.

"Okay, one last thing guys. Our tributes must shake hands before heading into the Justice Building, so come on guys. Shake hands and show some spirit."

Kandy is practically vibrating with excitement by this point, and as I trudge across the stage I'm a little amazed by Dai's reaction. Moving across the stage with a serene grace, like some kind of ballerina, an enigmatic smile on her pixie like features: I'm floored by how unaffected she is by all of this. Shouldn't she be crying? Shouldn't she be as disgusted with everything as I am? Pausing for a second, I realise that she looks pleased. She isn't scared at all; she looks excited by the prospect of the Hunger Games.

Her hand extends towards me, the motion graceful and deliberate: I hastily grasp her hand, surprised by how firm her grip is and the look in her eyes. Her unwavering gaze has me feeling unnerved, Kandy is even looking a little unsettled by Dai's unaffected attitude. Pulling me close she whispers in my ear, her soprano voice sounds like the chime of a bell.

"In the art of Campbellian storytelling, I am the protagonist. The fates have been decided, and you Elek: Your life is now imprinted onto the parchment, our fates are intertwined. You shall be my devout acquaintance. It will be your tragic death that will be the defining moment that pushes me onward towards my destined greatness. Every beat of your hand, every moment from now: Another step towards the greatness I am to embrace. Thank you in advance, I will mourn for you friend."

What? Looking towards Kandy for some kind of clarification is useless; the bimbo is as nonplussed as I am. Dai herself has yet to let go of my hand, she is simply swaying on the spot with her eyes closed and looking as serene as ever. Is this some kind of sick mind game she's trying to play? Looking down at where our hands are twined, I feel my heart skip a beat. A black band is attached to her right wrist, crimson five emblazoned on it for everyone to see.

I feel as though my stomach is tied in knots, these wristbands are worn to identify and classify the inhabitants of the 'Institute': No one really knows anything about the Institute, just that the people housed there are dangerous. They're labelled with a number from one to five, and the higher the number: The more dangerous the individual. Any pre-conceived notions of Dai being fragile or harmless vanish like smoke in the wind, and my brain seems to have fully detached from my mouth since I can't even form words. Kandy, as annoying as she is, does me a favour by pushing her way between Little Miss Institution and myself.

"Come on guys let's cheer for out tributes… We can do it, District Ten can do it. Can we do it? Yes, we'll do it: District Ten can do it…"

Dai's tinkling soprano blends with Kandy's nasally screech. Staring out into a sea of faces wearing expressions similar to my own, disbelief and disgust: The idea of the Hunger Games may be pretty straightforward, but with a dangerous District buddy and a District Liaison who is more like a demented cheerleader than genuinely helpful. Let's just say that I'm pretty doubtful that the road home will be an easy one. As Kandy continues to cheer and Dai is dancing absentmindedly, I just can't form a coherent thought: The race is about to start, but how can I be expected to win when it's beginning to feel as though circumstance is cutting me off at the knee?

* * *

As surreal as today is turning out to be, I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation: Quarantined in the 'Justice' building with all these fancy gizmos and overly luxurious furnishings. It's just ironic really; this so called Justice building is being utilized as the farewell point for two children being sent off to compete in the biggest injustice in the history of Panem.

Falling back onto the suede sofa, I'd like nothing more than to bask in 'how the other side live' but it's impossible: The threat of imminent death kind of kills the mood. I can't help but notice some small trinkets, things that would be so inconsequential to the Capitol and the snobbish bastards here in 10, how much Mam could sell them for: Would it be enough to tide her over while I'm gone?

What if I don't come back? How is she going to cope? It's a snowball effect: It started with Ox, and then Levi. And now Mam might have to lose me too, I really can't get my head around that fact. Is it some kind of cosmic curse? The Cordova family just can't catch a break.

"Elek, you'd better not disgrace me in that Arena. You're representing the Vidas family."

A voice I hadn't heard in years breaks the silence I was beginning to enjoy, the voice of the man who fathered me. The voice of the callous bastard who sat idly by and watched his 'son' be publically beaten without even raising an eyebrow. How this man can call himself a father eludes me, he's a selfish prick: And seeing him stand there wearing the tailored suit, the styled hair and shrewd grey eyes lights a fire inside of me. Every bit of anger I was holding back earlier is bubbling beneath the surface.

"What are you doing here? Why would you come when you know I'd like nothing more than to wake up one day and hear you'd been killed in your sleep? Where is Ma? Danica? You know, the actual people I actually give a damn about."

Actually saying something to the bastard who is so happy to watch me suffer is enthralling. I want to say so much more, to call him out on being a total idiot, but I know that while he can't do anything to me now: I'm the chosen 'Tribute' after all, the bastard wouldn't hesitate to go after Mam or Danni because he knows how much I love them. Marina and Buck would probably fall under that banner too, so I swallow whatever else I have to say and just stare at the door: Silently willing him to leave.

"Oh little brother, you should really watch your mouth. Wouldn't want me or Pa to pay ole' Damaris a visit. Or your little friend, that feisty blond: Danica or Danielle was it? The one with the snot faced shit of a little sister: The Martinez girl's. I mean, Danica could probably serve a few uses but the little one isn't to my tastes so … I'd probably just kill her off the bat. Hey, where's the fight Elek? You're a pretty well-known brawler round here. Usually you never shut up, what's happened?"

My teeth are grinding against one another to the point that it's becoming painful, I have a tonne of things I'd like to say to Lucifer and his spawn: Basically I want to tell them to take their 'entitlements' and fuck themselves silly. Like he said, I have a lot to say but I'm not stupid: I don't doubt for one second that if I told them how I really felt: My mother, or my friends would be the ones to pay the price.

My 'Brother' Adin seems to bask in my discomfort, thrives on the fact that I can't do anything or say anything without something tragic befalling the Cordova family yet again. I'm tired of this, this being trapped bullshit: Adin shares a glance with my biological father, gesturing at me as if to say 'What can he do?'. If I weren't being sent to the Capitol, I'd love to show them what I can do: I can take my boot and shove it down both of their snobbish throats. Folding my arms across my chest, I silently seethe as they have a whispered conversation: I'm not curious to know what they're talking about. I'm just pissed that they're cutting into the time I could be spending with Ma and my friends. Selfish bastards are probably doing it deliberately too.

"Oh, time is almost up boy. You may be a Cordova by name, but you're a Vidas by blood: If you somehow make a fool of yourself, that could affect my standing with the Capitol. And I won't accept that. So let me be very clear: If you want to see your Ma ever again: You'd better win—"

"I's watch what you were saying Mr. Vidas, throughout the course of the Games Elek and by extension- his mother and friends will be offered the greatest protection from miscreants like you, courtesy of the Capitol. You may have 'standing' within the Capitol, but if you threaten a Tribute or their family, you will be tried for treason against the Capitol. Am I clear?"

What the fuck? The woman standing in the doorway is most definitely a Capitolite, although she hasn't been as liberal with 'mods' as Kandy, with her tangerine coloured suit and platinum hair. She boldly steps into the room, eyeing my biological father and half-brother with barely concealed disdain: Scoffing as she looks them up and down.

I thought today couldn't get any more absurd, but here it is: Seeing the Vidas men, so content to Lord over District Ten being looked at the way they look at everyone else. It's humorous, but I know my father's reputation. He would never allow any to speak to him as though he is beneath them. A trait that Adin inherited, they pause for a second before Adin begins to laugh aloud.

"I don't know who you think you are, little Miss, but I'm Adin Vidas and this is my Father. We rule District Ten, so you might want to watch your mouth—"

The nameless Capitolite laughs mirthlessly before clapping her hands, instantaneously a flood of Peacekeepers enter the room. The very Peacekeepers who've been known to do the Vidas' 'dirty work' on more than one occasion, but rather than looking towards the Ranch Owner and his heir for instruction: They're eyes are affixed to the platinum haired Capitolite. It just feels absurd and for one moment, I feel grateful that this Capitol woman is putting Satan and his spawn in their place, until I remember the situation that the Capitol has landed me in. This is one fucked up situation.

"The name is not little Miss, it is Summer Scorsese and I am the interim Mentor for the Tributes of District Ten. I'm also a trusted advisor to the President himself, with third degree security clearance. So remember your place boys, because all it takes is one order and you're dead. These Peacekeepers, who you believed were loyal to you I presume, will kill you without a second thought. What do you say Elek? Would you like for me to handle these pathetic excuses for men? Eliminate any threat your family and friends would potentially face: Their fate, Mr Cordova, is in your hands."

While Kandy was an imbecile, Summer is nothing but sinisterly intelligent. Her amethyst coloured eyes shine with malice and understanding, an unlikely coupling: I hate the Capitol with vehemence, but I hate my bastard Father and his halfwit son equally. Every pair of eyes is fixed on me, and I know that I have to make a decision: Mam would tell me to be merciful, that the Vidas' would get their comeuppance in time.

But what havoc could they cause before that? Who could they endanger on one of their sadistic whims? Summer raises a perfectly raised eyebrow and in that moment I just nod my head. The effect is instant, Summer raises her hand and the sound of gunfire fills the room. My eyes instinctively squeeze shut and I cover my ears, what is happening? The day began as absurd, and somehow I've been pulled further into this bizarre reality that the Hunger Games have unleashed on Panem.

* * *

 **Elek's perspective was shoddily written, and I apologise profusely for that (I'll make up for it in his second POV). But I hadn't updated in a while and I really wanted to get this out. Let me know your thoughts: We'll find out more about both of these tributes throughout the Pre-Games. I finally have a functional laptop, and I've returned from Scotland.**

 **Now, any questions you can hit me up. But remember to review, a lot of people who were reviewing every chapter have stopped and I'm a little like 'Why….?' Next chapter is half written and I will be updating on Tuesday: Feel free to badger me about it :)**

 **REVIEW….**


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